Wife Just Gave Birth to a Son, Husband Takes His Lover to the House to Ask for Forgiveness – 3 Months Later, the Husband Had to Kneel Down and Beg for Forgiveness
It was a drizzly afternoon in Manila, the first habagat season, and heavy drops of water lingered on the glass door of the hospital room at Philippine General Hospital Ermita. Inside, Mara lay on her side, the pain from her cesarean section still lingering. She had just undergone a cesarean section to welcome her first son—a journey she herself called “the birth of someone who thought she had lost hope.”

For the past 6 years, Mara and her husband Carlo have sought treatment everywhere for infertility: from folk herbal remedies, hilot, to Western medicine; at times, they even listened to the titas in Quiapo who told them good luck charms. There was a time when she thought she would never be a mother. Then, when she had almost accepted reality, the good news came like a miracle.

Mara was pregnant.

Throughout her pregnancy, she cherished every lugaw meal, every fitful sleep. Despite her poor health, she still prepared everything for her baby: every baby towel, a small cradle, even a baptismal name list.

She thought, after all her efforts, this would be the turning point that would help the family become closer. But she was wrong.

Three days after the surgery, when the stitches had not yet been removed, Carlo appeared—no flowers, no hot porridge, but next to him was… a strange woman.

Mara was stunned.

Before she could understand what was happening, Carlo placed a piece of paper on the bedside table: a pre-filled divorce application (civil procedure). Next to it was a thin envelope.

— Sign it. I will give you ₱10,000. Consider it… assistance in moving out.

— What did you… say? — Mara whispered, her voice choked.

— We’re done here. I don’t love you anymore. If I keep the baby, I will. I don’t want to live a forced life anymore.

The other woman stood there, smiling faintly as if watching a play. Her mother-in-law sat at the end of the bed, silent, her eyes staring into space as if she didn’t want to interfere.

At that moment, Mara’s world seemed to collapse.

No one defended her. No one spoke up. No one asked how she felt.

She sat there, her arms weakly holding the sleeping baby, her heart numb as if she had just fallen into a cliff.

But instead of crying or begging, Mara only asked one question:
— You want me to go… right now?

Carlo avoided her eyes, nodded.

Mara struggled to get up, despite the pain from the incision, despite the milk starting to swell. She wrapped the baby in a thin towel, picked up the old bag and walked out of the hospital—without a word of goodbye.

No one held her back. No one saw her off.

The small bedroom space in a deep alley in Sampaloc had an old tin roof that creaked every time the wind blew and the rain. Mara rented it with the little money she had left after hospital fees and a few necessities for the baby.

She cooked her own post-natal porridge on an electric stove, washed her own diapers, mixed milk, and rocked her baby to sleep amid the clanking of jeepneys and tricycles outside. On nights when her baby had a fever, she stayed up all night watching his every breath. When her baby was fussy, she gritted her teeth and endured, not daring to cry out loud for fear of startling him.

During the day, when her baby slept, she turned on her old phone and accepted some online architectural design jobs—a passion she had put aside after getting married.

At night, under the flickering yellow light, her hands trembled as she drew each line. Not because she was tired, but because of pain—both physical and mental.

But she did not allow herself to collapse.

The first month, she earned a few hundred thousand dong in pesos. The second month, thanks to an old client’s introduction, she accepted a drawing for a garden house in Antipolo. From then on, small orders gradually increased.

No one knew that behind the meticulous drawings was a single mother who worked all night with her child. She worked from a small rented room, a secondhand laptop, and a will to never give up.

Sometimes, she recalled her ex-husband’s cold eyes, and felt that her heart was no longer as painful as before—only empty and calm.

Three years passed.

Mara rented a studio apartment in Mandaluyong with windows that let in sunlight. Her son—little Miguel (Migs)—was able to scoop rice by himself, read the alphabet, and often said:

— When I grow up, I will protect you like superhero Darna… no, like Captain Barbell!

One weekend afternoon, while mother and son were watering the money plant on the balcony, Carlo suddenly appeared.

He was thin, his shirt faded, standing awkwardly in front of the door.

— I just want to… visit you for a bit.

Migs looked at him strangely and asked his mother:

— Mom, who is this guy?

Mara walked over and gently put her arm around his son’s shoulder:

— He’s an old acquaintance of yours. But I don’t need to know now.

Carlo lowered his head, not daring to look at his son. He quietly turned away. On the stairs, his eyes were red.

That night, Mara wrote in her diary:

“The day you left, I thought I had lost everything. Then I realized: people who are not sincere will leave sooner or later.
As for you, you are the priceless gift that life has given me.”

Mara closed the notebook and turned off the light. Outside, the Manila rain was still falling lightly. In the small room, Migs hugged his mother tightly and slept soundly. And in the streak of light shining through the curtains, Mara knew: the sun between mother and son was gradually rising, from her own hands that refused to let go.

Part 2: When the Past Returns

One morning early in the week, as Mara was preparing to take Miguel to kindergarten in Mandaluyong, she received a strange envelope left at her door. Inside was a summons from the Family Court Quezon City: Carlo had filed for visitation rights.

Mara was stunned. She was not afraid of losing Miguel, but she knew that once she entered the courtroom, the painful past would be brought up again.

The First Hearing

In the courtroom, Mara wore a simple barong tagalog, hugging Miguel tightly in the back row. Carlo entered with a young lawyer. He had lost a lot of weight, but his eyes were still evasive.

The judge asked bluntly:

— Mr. Carlo, why have you not provided for or visited your child for three years, and now you are asking for visitation rights?

Carlo bowed his head:

— Your Honor… I made a mistake. I followed another woman, leaving my wife and child to suffer. Now I want to be a real father. I am not asking for custody, I just want to see my child.

The room was in an uproar. Mara stood up, her voice trembling but firm:

— When I was in the operating room, he brought divorce papers and another woman. When I carried my child out of the hospital, he gave me ₱10,000 as charity. For the past three years, I have been the one to take care of every drop of milk, every pill, every fever my child had. Now he says he regrets it… but I don’t want my child to be hurt again.

The judge nodded and took notes:

— The court will consider it. Children need both a father and a mother, but above all, safety.

Miguel’s questions

That night, when we got home, Miguel hugged his drawing book and asked:

— Mom, I saw him today… is he your papa?

Mara was speechless. She sat down and stroked her son’s hair:

— Yes, son. He is your papa. But being a father is not just about blood, but about heart. And just remember: Mom is always here with you.

Miguel was silent, then suddenly hugged tightly:

— I only need you.

Mara’s tears fell on her shoulder, both painful and warm.

The turning point in the final trial

The following month, at Family Court, Mara’s lawyer presented evidence: a photocopy of the divorce papers, an envelope of ₱10,000, and the nurse’s testimony at PGH on the day Mara gave birth by cesarean section. Carlo sat silently, without making any excuses. The woman who had accompanied him also appeared briefly in the hallway, glanced at him coldly, and then left.

Finally, the judge ruled: Carlo was only allowed to visit Miguel for two hours a month at the monitoring center, and was not allowed to take the child anywhere. Full custody belonged to Mara.

Carlo burst into tears, but those tears were too late.

Mara of the new day

A year later, the small studio “Mara Designs” officially opened in Ortigas Center. From a single mother working on an old laptop in her bedspace, she now has a group of young architects. On the wall hangs a picture of the mother and son smiling, with the words:

“Lakas ng Ina — Strength of a Mother.”

Miguel is now 7 years old, likes to wear a red cape and calls himself “Little Captain Barbell”. Whenever someone asks about his father, he just smiles:

— Mama is papa, is mama, is my whole world.

Late at night, Mara opens her diary again:

“The day you brought the divorce papers into the hospital room, I thought everything was over. But actually, that was the beginning of me finding myself again.

If one day you ask, I will tell you: Your father was lost. But thanks to that, I understood that: the true strength of a woman is when she stands up for her children.”

Mara closed the book and turned off the light. Outside, Manila was drizzling. In the room, Miguel curled up in the blanket, sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. And Mara knew: the dawn of mother and daughter had truly begun.