Discovering that my husband was having an affair with two pregnant mistresses, I decided not to divorce him but instead organized a lavish party, invited both of them, and then exactly 20 minutes later everyone present was surprised…
One day, I accidentally discovered that both of my husband’s mistresses – Miguel – were pregnant, with the same belly size.

One was an office worker at his company, named Jessa.
The other was a “socialite” who served drinks in the Poblacion area, Makati, named Roxanne.

I calmly… did not fight.
I also did not sue.
I just quietly planned to organize a grand “wedding anniversary” party at a villa in New Manila, Quezon City, inviting all of my friends, relatives and… both mistresses.

I also sent a separate invitation with an envelope of “pamasahe/gas money”, with a sweet note:

“I know you truly love my husband. Please come to my wedding properly.”

That day, I wore a bright red dress, put on makeup like I was going to present an award at the ABS-CBN Ball, and lovingly put my arm around my husband as if nothing had happened. The garden hall was hung with yellow lights, a long table was set with lechon, pancit, caldereta, lumpia, and glasses of sparkling wine. The band played kundiman, making the atmosphere even more “celebratory”.

The party began.
In less than 20 minutes, both mistresses walked in — both with big bellies, both thinking they were the “first wives about to be replaced”.

And then…

The two of them met in the middle of the yard.

Each of them carried an expensive gift box — “a gift for you to introduce yourself to.”

The whole room was stunned.
Miguel stood frozen in the middle of the yard, his face pale, his hands trembling.

I gently stepped up to the microphone amid the murmuring:

“Let me introduce you to everyone, these are my husband’s two ‘youngest sisters’. Both of them are pregnant… at the same time!
Thank you for making me understand: having money without character is just a coward!”

After saying that, I pulled out a signed divorce paper from under the table, along with a photo of him lying with each of them in his two rented apartments in Ortigas and BGC.

Miguel screamed, rushed forward to grab the papers, but then staggered and collapsed in front of all his relatives and his two mistresses, clutching his chest as if he couldn’t breathe. The whole hall was in chaos, some people supported him, some covered their mouths in horror. I just calmly told the manager to call an ambulance.

And the final twist:

When I took him to St. Luke’s Medical Center – Quezon City, I left only one sentence for all three of us:

“Don’t worry, whoever gives birth to the child can do a DNA test.

Because that man… is infertile.

And I’m the one who’s pregnant — thanks to the sperm of a better man.”

The party floor was dead silent.

Jessa burst into tears, holding her stomach, her eyes wide open as she looked at Roxanne. Roxanne stood there, frozen, her high heels glued to the tile floor. Relatives looked at each other, whispers broke out all over the garden: “Infertile?”, “Whose baby is it?”, “Oh my god, Miguel!”. My husband’s friends suddenly lowered their heads, no one dared to come near. As for me, I just bowed to thank the band and signaled to change the song: from a melodious love song to a lively marcha for… the farewell ceremony.

As the ambulance sirens left the gate, I turned to the microphone and smiled:

“Thank you all for coming to celebrate our last wedding anniversary.
From tomorrow, I celebrate freedom.”

I raised my glass, cheered with my sisters, with my cousins who had known about it and were quietly by my side. The quick-witted manager brought out halo-halo instead of wedding cake, and my whole table applauded. Several women came up to shake my hand, some whispering “Laban lang” (keep it up). I nodded, feeling relieved.

That night, I carefully emailed all the evidence to my lawyer: the apartment lease, the restaurant receipts, screenshots of text messages, and Miguel’s previous checkup—the doctor had discreetly confirmed that he had fertility problems. I had kept quiet because I thought I could save the marriage. But the moment the two “pregnant women” entered the banquet hall, I understood: the only thing I needed to save was my self-respect and the child in my womb.

The next morning, as the sun rose above the Acacia trees of New Manila, I stood in front of the mirror, placing my hand on my belly. I texted the person who had helped me on my journey to motherhood — a truly kind person who had agreed to donate sperm so that I could have a chance to nurture a life. I simply wrote: “Thank you. The child will grow up with love and kindness.”

Somewhere, Miguel would probably continue to play the victim, calling each of his acquaintances to explain. Jessa and Roxanne would have to face their own truths. As for me, I chose a clear path: sign the paperwork, return to myself, and raise my child with peace and respect.

My “wedding anniversary” party turned out to be a ceremony to clear the name of an unworthy man. And in the middle of Quezon City, under the windy May sky, I knew I had just started a new year of my life — light, free, and without fear.