I used to think I had a happy family in Mandaluyong City: a kind husband named Miguel, a good son, a small house that wasn’t rich but was filled with laughter. But then, in just a few short days, everything collapsed.

That afternoon, I was about to pick up my child when I received a call from an unknown number. A woman’s voice was urgent:

— Are you Miguel’s wife? He had an accident and is being treated at St. Luke’s Medical Center – Quezon City. Come quickly!

I was stunned. I couldn’t call my husband back. I asked someone I knew to pick up my child, then immediately took a taxi to the hospital.

In the ER, my husband lay still. His face was bruised, his head was wrapped in white bandages, and a ventilator tube was attached. The doctor said he had a severe brain injury and his chances of waking up were very low. They told me to prepare myself: if there was no sign of recovery in the next 48 hours, the family should consider removing the breathing tube to end artificial life.

I sat there like a lost soul. Tears could not fall. After all these years of being a wife and a mother, I never thought I would have to face this situation—to be the one to decide whether my husband lives or dies.

Before I could calm down, a woman appeared with a 5-year-old boy. She looked at me in shock, then quickly regained her confidence. No one introduced me, and no one asked. The look between women was clear enough: a third person.

She came to the hospital bed, held my husband’s hand and cried like rain:

— Honey, wake up, my son and I cannot live without you!

The child stood behind his mother, his face bewildered—but his features were so similar to Miguel that my heart clenched. The “sudden business trips”, the secret calls… now had an explanation.

My husband has a lover. And a child.

That night, the doctor invited me in again. His condition was very bad, deep coma, almost zero nerve reflexes. His body was living on a machine. They needed the family to decide: to maintain or remove the tube.

I was silent. My mind was blank. The other woman spoke, her voice cold…

— Sister, I think Miguel is suffering like this. We should let him go peacefully. The child and I accept losing him. I hope you agree.

I looked at her, then at the child—his biological child. I remembered the nights I sat alone waiting for my husband to come home in vain, thinking he was busy with work; it turned out he was happy somewhere else. I remembered the times he was cold, yelling at me for “not understanding”. I remembered the times I had to hide my tears just so that my child could have a complete home.

I turned to the doctor, gently but firmly:

— No.

Many people will ask: why did I hold on to the life of the traitor? Simply: I did not want him to go so easily.

I did not harbor hatred—but I was not willing. A man who had lived a double life for so many years, why should he die peacefully, leaving in the tears of two women?

I wanted him to wake up to hear everything I had endured. To face my guilt. To explain to my son—the child who still believed his father was a hero.

I wanted him to know: when he lay motionless, it was his betrayed wife who decided his life. Not his mistress. Not his illegitimate child. It was me—the legal wife he had despised for so long.

Three days later, Miguel suddenly responded. He was out of danger; the doctor said the possibility of his memory or mobility recovering was still uncertain.

I took care of him in the ICU quietly—no complaints, not a single tear. The other woman did not return. Maybe she understood: she couldn’t win this battle.

I didn’t know how to handle the marriage. Divorce? Maybe. But not now. I needed him to wake up. I needed to look him straight in the eye and ask him one question:

— When you lie next to another woman, where do you put me and the child?

And only then will I truly decide the outcome of this marriage.