I found out that my fiancée had an abortion on the day of the wedding, and her ex-boyfriend was ….
Lia and I had been in love for almost two years. She was gentle, thoughtful, and very much liked by my Nanay. Both families agreed, the wedding invitations had been sent out, everything was ready for a wedding at San Agustin Church, Intramuros, and a party at a hotel in Makati.

On the wedding day, while I was adjusting my tie in the dressing room, a strange text message appeared on the phone Lia had left on the table:

“Are you really going to marry my brother? I didn’t expect you to hide the fact that you abandoned our child like that…”

Sender: Ramon de la Cruz — my real brother.

I was stunned. I pulled Lia into a private room, handed her the phone, and said in a trembling voice:

— Explain. What is this?

Lia’s face paled, her lips trembled, her eyes red:

— I was going to tell you… but not today. Kuya Ramon and I… knew each other in… college, just a few months. I… I was pregnant, he went to study abroad, I was scared… I abandoned him without telling anyone…

A chill ran down my spine.

— You plan to hide it from me for the rest of your life?

— I love you, truly. I didn’t know you were Kuya Ramon’s younger brother until I came home to meet my parents… It was too late.

I gritted my teeth:

— Late? Why did you think that terrible secret could be buried as if it had never happened?

The door swung open. Nanay walked in in panic, followed by… Kuya Ramon. He looked at me, his eyes tired and regretful:

— I wanted to tell you for a long time, but thinking about the past, I let it rest in peace. I didn’t expect Lia to be the one you love.

I sneered. We both chose to stay silent — leaving me to be a laughing stock on our wedding day.

Lia fell to her knees:

— I’m sorry… I have no one else, I just want a home. I love you — that has never been a lie.

I looked at the gorgeous wedding dress on her, feeling bitter: a child buried in silence; a brother hiding; a bride-to-be who thought I would never know.

I stepped out amid the whispers of the guests, holding the microphone:

— I’m sorry everyone… There will be no wedding today. I can’t marry someone who was pregnant with… my brother.

The whole hall was silent. Nanay fainted. Lia burst into tears. Kuya Ramon bowed his head.

As for me… I turned and walked away. Behind me was the sound of a wedding dress scraping the floor, choked sobs, and a love that died prematurely because of an unforgivable secret.

Open ending

A year later, I still haven’t loved anyone, living in doubt and hurt. Lia? I heard she moved to Cebu to start over. Kuya Ramon — since that day left Quezon City without a trace, leaving an unhealed wound in the family.

As for me — I still don’t know if I was right to call off the engagement, or if I lost the woman who truly loved me because of the past

— the bells of Intramuros and the wishes of Cebu

A year later, I was still in Quezon City, occasionally passing through Intramuros on Sunday afternoons just to hear the bells of San Agustin ringing out of an unnamed habit. At that time, I thought everything would stand still like those mossy stone walls, until one morning Nanay handed me an express envelope.

Inside was a wedding invitation.

Bride’s name: Lia Santos.
Church: Basilica del Santo Niño, Cebu.
Wedding date: the first anniversary of my annulment.

Attached to the invitation was a small folded note: “I want you to know that I have lived differently. I do not expect forgiveness, but I do expect blessings.” Below the words was Kuya Ramon’s shaky signature: “Come with me, so that this time there will be no silence.”

I held the invitation for a long time. Inside, there was a mixture of emotions: anger had cooled, pain had worn off, but regret remained, like the last rays of sunlight on the stone walls of Intramuros. Nanay looked at me and said only, “Go, child. There are doors that only open when you have the courage… to say ‘I wish you peace.’”

The next morning’s flight took me to Mactan in a light rain. Cebu smelled of the salty sea, the sounds of traffic and the cries of taho mixed together. I stood outside the Basilica, soaked, my heart as chaotic as the uncertain sky. Kuya Ramon came after me, hugging me tightly. He was thinner, but his eyes were bright and strangely calm.

“I’m sorry, a full apology this time,” he said. “I’ve been to a counselor, I’ve learned to name the things I used to avoid: cowardice, pride, fear. And you—if you’ll let me—I want to be a real brother again.”

I nodded. Over the past year, what has been tearing me apart the most is not Linh—ah, Lia—but the silent shadow of the two brothers. Only then did I find myself letting out a long sigh.

The wedding ceremony began. Lia walked in, wearing a simple white wedding dress, holding a bouquet of sampaguita interwoven with pale roses. As the music played, I suddenly remembered the day I was almost the groom in San Agustin; the memories came and went like waves, leaving a mixture of cold and warm in my chest.

I sat in the back row, watching the ceremony unfold slowly. Lia’s groom was a slightly older man with gentle eyes. When the priest read the prayer, Lia turned her head very slightly. It was not a searching look, but a greeting—to the past, to mistakes, to me. I also bowed my head slightly, as a response.

After the ceremony, I stood outside the Basilica’s patio, avoiding the crowd taking pictures. Lia arrived. Half a step away, I could hear the rain hitting the tiled floor.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice small but firm. “I’m not looking for forgiveness. I just want to close the door properly.”

I opened my purse and took out the veil pin Nanay had given Lia at the engagement ceremony last year—the one I’d kept like a thorn on the day the wedding was called off. I placed it in her hand.

“This is for you.” I smiled, a smile that tasted salty from the rain. “I wanted it in your hair in Intramuros. But I think… today is the right place.”

Lia clutched the veil pin. “You know,” she continued, “I joined a young girls’ counseling group in Cebu. Every time a little girl came in, trembling and telling her about her fears, I saw myself. I can’t change the past, but I can stand at the door and invite those kids to come out into the light.”

I nodded. “Kuya and I… we want to start a small foundation. Call it ‘Stop the Silence.’ We’ll cover counseling fees, reproductive health checkups, short-term scholarships. If you want… let’s do it.”

Lia smiled, her eyes moist but not weak. “Okay. That’s the best blessing I could get.”

That afternoon, we—me, Lia, and Kuya—stopped at a cafe overlooking Colon Street. We talked about the usual things: Nanay replanting the flower bushes in front of the house, my moving to a job closer to home, Kuya’s plans to move back to Quezon City to take care of Nanay. There were moments of silence in between, but this time, it was a good silence—like the breath between two musical notes.

Before we parted, Lia placed an envelope on the table. “Don’t refuse,” she said. “This is part of the first fund. I want to start today, so that the name ‘Stop Silence’ is not just a promise.”

I took it. Our hands touched, not shaking, not in a hurry. I suddenly thought: it turns out that forgiveness is not wiping away memories, but replacing them in our hearts.

That night, I went back to my room, opened the window to look at the Cebu rain. There was a text message from Nanay on my phone: “Son, I’m happy for you.” A text from Kuya: “Let’s go back to Manila tomorrow.” And a short text from Lia: “Thank you for not being silent.”

I laughed. There was a little sadness: sadness for a wedding that didn’t happen, for a child who didn’t have time to come into this world. There was a little joy: joy for another wedding that happened peacefully, for two brothers who found each other again, for a small fund that was about to have a meaningful name. And there was also regret—a strange spice that makes people remember more clearly what has passed, to live more kindly with what remains.

When the plane landed in Ninoy Aquino, I texted Lia: “When ‘Stop Silence’ receives its first application, let me know.” On the other side, only a heart symbol appeared—enough.

In the afternoon, I stopped by San Agustin. The church bell rang again. I stood in the annex, where I had left the year before. This time, I didn’t turn my back. I clasped my hands, not to ask for anything, but to whisper two words to everyone: “Peace.”

Out the gate, an old man selling sampaguita held out a white wreath. I bought two bracelets: one for Nanay, one to hang on the family photo frame. As I walked down the stone steps, a thin, silky rain began to fall. I pulled my collar, smiling.

My story with Lia was no longer about getting married or not getting married. It had become another promise: a promise to never let silence ruin anyone’s life again. A promise to live well enough that regret would no longer be a rope, but a reminder that we had loved—deep enough to know when to let go.

The last bell rang long, melting into the rain. I turned to General Luna, ordering a hot taho. Somewhere in this city, someone was starting over, someone was coming back, someone was learning to say “sorry” and “thank you.” And for the first time in a long time, I felt as light as a chiffon pin returned to its rightful owner. Sad, happy, regretful—but in the end, at peace.