I caught my husband sleeping with my best friend, so I slept with her husband… but 2 years later, disaster struck. I changed jobs, got promoted, moved to another apartment in Makati, learned how to make pour-over coffee, grew Japanese grass on the balcony. I thought everything was normal. Until one afternoon, the phone rang. The woman’s voice was trembling:
“Hello Liza, I am Maria’s mother. She… didn’t make it. The doctor said it was a brain tumor. She left you a letter.”

I was speechless.

In the envelope, Maria’s handwriting was slanted:

“Liza,
I was diagnosed with a brain tumor three years ago. I hid it from everyone, even you, even Ramon. Only Jomar knew because I fainted one time while working with him. He took me to the doctor, and then stayed by my side. One night when I was scared, he held me… and you know the rest.

I betrayed you, but not just out of lust. Out of fear. Out of selfishness, wanting someone who didn’t see me as a patient.

I heard about you and Ramon… I have no right to judge. Just wanted to say: the cycle of revenge doesn’t stop. It crushes everything, even us.

If I leave, I hope you hate me less. In the wooden cabinet of the flower shop, on the bottom shelf, there is a picture of us from college. Keep it.

I’m sorry,
Maria.”

I cried in Maria’s old flower shop, where the smell of ribbons and wilted flowers lingered. In the wooden box were student photos: us in plastic raincoats laughing in the rain, riding jeepneys with messy hair. There was also a photo of us hugging in front of a chalk wall: “If we get lost, see you here.”

I called Ramon. We met again by Manila Bay, the waves lapping gently. I gave him the letter. He read it, silent. “I don’t know,” he said. “Neither do I,” I replied. We both sighed: “We have to stop this cycle.”

The second incident

Shortly after, I found out I was pregnant. The timing didn’t coincide with Jomar. It coincided with the night I spent with Ramon. I collapsed in the bathroom, tears falling from my eyes in fear.

I told Ramon. He fell silent, then said softly: “I want to be a father.” For the first time, I saw the light of a father in his eyes.

Jomar knew, but this time, he didn’t get angry. We met in the park. He said, “I was wrong from the beginning, keeping Maria’s secret without telling you. Now I just want you to be happy.” I hugged him, closing an old door.

Rebirth

The day my child was born in a small hospital in Manila, it was a shower that quickly stopped. I named him Dagat (Sea). Ramon held him, crying like a baby. Mother Maria came, holding him, whispering: “Maria will smile somewhere.”

I went to Maria’s grave and placed a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. “I dare not ask for forgiveness,” I said, “but I will live a good life so that one day I can dare to look at you without bowing my head.”

That night, I wrote a letter and put it in Maria’s old notebook: “I rode the wave, Maria. Not by fighting it, but by learning to float. If you were here, I believe you would laugh.”

That night, I stood on the porch of my house in Quezon City, the rain hitting my face as if someone was deliberately pouring sanity on me. I understood one thing: there were cracks that seemed to come from the traitor in front of me, but were actually deep inside me for a long time. Two years ago, I chose to retaliate—and I thought I had won. But any victory built on sand is eventually washed away by the waves. And the wave of my life came just when I thought I was safest.

My name is Liza. I was twenty-nine years old that year, with a seemingly peaceful marriage in a small apartment overlooking the Pasig River, and a close friend—Maria—who had been with me since college. We had studied architecture together at the University of Santo Tomas, then went our separate ways. direction: I went to an interior design company, and Maria got married early, opened a small flower shop on the corner of Malate. My husband, Jomar, was the gentle, quiet type. I trusted Jomar like one trusts one’s heartbeat: steady and faithful.

Then one night, I got off work late, driving home in the company car. The apartment door was unlocked. In the darkness, I heard a familiar laugh—Maria’s. From the crack in the bedroom door, yellow light leaked, and when I opened it… they were there. Maria and Jomar. No screaming. No breaking down. They just looked at me, wide-eyed. I left, driving in the pouring rain on EDSA, tears mingling with the rain.

Three days later, in a distorted state of consciousness, I met Ramon—Maria’s husband—at a cafe near Luneta Park. Ramon found out, not from Maria’s confession, but from a photo that happened to fall out of Jomar’s wallet. He smiled bitterly: “What are you going to do?” I replied, “If they want to ruin everything, why should we stand by and watch?”

That night, Ramon and I were together. No love. No romance. Just two people retaliating, making others suffer as much as we did. The next morning, I felt the most dangerous part of me was… the feeling of winning.

I went back to Jomar and said, “I know. And I did the same thing.” He was speechless. We broke up. Maria disappeared from my life. Ramon moved back to his parents’ house.

Two years later…

In the spiral of betrayal – revenge – regret – loss, people can only be truly freed when they learn to stop. Liza chose to be reborn, raising her child with love and courage. And the circle of revenge closed, to open a new journey – the journey of forgiveness and survival.