The day before the wedding, my ex-wife came to sleep at my house; when she brought me a bowl of arroz caldo, I immediately broke off the engagement

I work in Quezon City, life is hard, salary is low. My Nanay (mother) and Tatay (father) had children late, now they are old and sick all the time. Every month, medicine, electricity, water, weddings – there is no expense that is not spent.

Last year, I married a gentle, capable girl. No matter how late I came home, the kitchen was still warm, the meals were always ready. Then the incident happened.

In the middle of the night, my Nanay had a stroke. My wife found out and called a tricycle to take her straight to the Philippine General Hospital (PGH). My mother survived but was paralyzed, living in bed. Tatay had joint pain and could not help.

The burden fell on my wife. She had to quit her job to take care of the two elderly. The already tight finances became even tighter. I tried to save money, brought lunch boxes to work, and worked overtime during Fiesta, but I still didn’t have enough.

Once, after an inuman (drinking) session with my boss in Makati, I got drunk. My colleagues helped me home; my wife saw that and scolded me a few times. I got angry… and slapped her in front of everyone. My wife was stunned, her eyes were red. When I woke up in the morning, there was only the tear-stained letter and the annulment application on the table.

I regretted it but was still stubborn. I thought I was a man who worked to support the family, what was the point of apologizing? So I signed. She moved away very quickly, her calm face made me feel resentful. I told myself I had to “start my life over” so she would regret it.

I started looking for someone to remarry with clear criteria. Not long after, I met a woman who had been annulled, had no children, and was well-off in Makati. Although she was a bit short, I thought her small stature highlighted my “steadiness”. Everything went very fast. Half a year later, the wedding invitations were sent; the church in Quiapo was booked, and the reception at the function hall was ready.

At that time, my mother’s illness became worse. She could not speak, and had difficulty eating. The relative in Batangas who came to help take care of her also asked for leave. I was both on duty and working, exhausted and feverish. With no one else to ask, I had to call my ex-wife, hoping she would come back to look after my mother for a night.

At first, she refused. But when I told her about Nanay’s situation, she still came. As soon as she entered the house, she rolled up her sleeves and went to the kitchen to cook arroz caldo (chicken and ginger rice porridge). Nanay saw her and burst into tears, holding my hand tightly and refusing to let go. Tatay also had tears in his eyes, crying and blaming me for being a good person.

My ex-wife did not say much. She quietly cleaned my mother, told me how to turn her body, how to massage her stiff limbs after a stroke. She complained that the house was dirty, the bed sheets had not been changed for a long time, and that Tatay’s medicine box had expired. She opened all the windows to let the sunlight in, did the laundry, cleaned, and cooked. In just half a day, the house in the barangay alley seemed to be bright again.

Nanay watched her ex-daughter-in-law’s figure with longing, afraid that she would leave. As for me, sitting alone looking at the barong set that had been hung up for tomorrow, I suddenly choked up. What kind of man was I, to have let down the woman who sacrificed everything for her family?

That night, opening the door, I saw my ex-wife sleeping next to her mother’s bed. Her hand was still tightly held by Nanay. One old, one young, sleeping quietly in the yellow light of the old lampshade. I couldn’t hold back my tears. I knelt down next to them, stammering an apology, begging her to forgive me.

The next morning, I broke off the engagement. Without hesitation, without excuses. I knew that for the rest of my life, the person I wanted to be with was the person who had called my mother Nanay with all her love.

As for my ex-wife, after a while of thinking, she nodded. We didn’t remarry; we just quietly moved in together, as if we had never been apart. Every morning, I woke up early to cook Nanay some thin arroz caldo with a little ginger; she wiped her face, combed her hair, then smiled and whispered:

— Nanay still likes her arroz caldo hot, don’t let it boil for too long.

I no longer try to act strong or better than anyone. I just want to be good enough for my wife and this small family. Out there, life is still hard, jeepneys are still packed, the sari-sari store on the corner still sells me a pack of noodles on credit when my salary runs out. But in my small house in Quezon City, I learned to appreciate it. It turns out that happiness isn’t something to be sought after; it’s something you hold on to while you still have time—starting with a bowl of warm arroz caldo, and a hand that never lets go.