MY HUSBAND AND SISTER HAVE RUINED MY LIFE!

For a month now, I have not been able to sleep. Every time I doze off, I wake up with a start, my heart pounding. My throat is always full of bitterness even though I have not eaten or drunk anything. I am alive, but in fact, I have been dead since the day I learned the truth.

Kuya Ben, how can a person survive being stabbed twice in the heart? One by the man he loves the most, and one by the woman he trusts the most. Ironically, those two people are my husband, Miguel, and my sister, Ate Liza.

My husband, who once swore to protect me for life. My sister, who is 5 years older than me, who used to carry me and braid my hair, is the strongest support after Nanay and Tatay. The two of them – the people I loved unconditionally – betrayed me together in the most brutal way.

They had an affair for seven years.

Seven years, Kuya, do you understand? It was not a crush, not a momentary mistake. It was a love affair that was calculated in years, in months, built up with thousands of lies right before my eyes in Quezon City. Looking back now, every memory turned into a horror movie: the times Ate Liza stayed at my condo “because she was afraid of being alone”; the times Miguel came to “fix the light bulbs, the water pipes” for her; the looks, the smiles that I thought were the love between a son-in-law and a sister-in-law, turned out to be the signals of liars. The family meals, the trips to Batangas, Tagaytay… it turned out that I was the only fool, a supporting actor who didn’t know I was acting in their play.

But hell didn’t stop there. The ultimate pain was when I learned that… my 7-year-old niece, Ate Liza’s child – the child I loved like my own – was actually Miguel and Ate Liza’s child.

Oh my God! Every time I think about it, my chest tightens and I can’t breathe. My Bayaw (brother-in-law) – Ate Liza’s late husband – died 3 years ago in an accident. Fortunately for him, and also unfortunate for him: he passed away without knowing that he had been “cuckolded” so shamefully. For so many years, the whole family, the whole clan had together loved and cared for the crystallization of a sin, a disgusting betrayal.

Now, every time she runs to hug me and calls me “Auntie!”, I have to use all my strength not to cry, not to push her away. I look into her eyes, into her smile, and see Miguel in them. My love for her is suddenly poisoned by this bitter truth. What should I do? Hate her? She was just an innocent child. But how can I continue to love her completely, when she is living proof of the betrayal that ruined my life?

They begged me to forgive them. They knelt down, cried, said it was an “irreversible mistake”. A mistake? A “mistake” that lasted for 7 years and created a child? Why Ate Liza? What did she lack? She had a loving husband, a complete family. Why did she have the heart to steal her own sister’s husband? And why Miguel? He said he loved me the most in the world; so how could he sleep with someone he knew that if I found out, the pain would multiply?

I wanted to scream, to pack my things and leave Manila. But why should I leave? This was my home. They were the ones who committed the crime, why should I run away?

I couldn’t tell anyone the truth, especially Nanay and Tatay. My parents were old; their hearts will not bear the terrible shock. This news will not only hurt them, it will kill them – for the sake of the two daughters they gave birth to.

I am stuck, Kuya. Stuck in my own house in QC, with the two people who ruined my life. Stuck in a secret that, if told, will destroy my whole family. How can I live through tomorrow? How can I face Ate Liza? How can I face Miguel? And oh my god, how can I look at my little niece without seeing the image of betrayal?

Should I stay silent, slowly dying in this secret to protect Nanay, Tatay, or should I blow it all up and let everyone go to hell together? Please give me some advice, even just a reason to breathe tomorrow

Part 2 — “A Way to Breathe in a Burning House”

On the 32nd night since the truth came out, I sat in my rented studio in Quezon City, watching the EDSA lights streak like knife marks. I opened the email reply from Kuya Ben (the guy I had sent the long letter to). Below, he did not console me much, just wrote 6 lines, like 6 steps of the ladder:

Preserve your mental safety first, justice later.

Don’t blame the child.

Talk about everything through a lawyer (abogado), don’t talk about it with tears.

Keep Nanay–Tatay out of the explosion zone.

Separate the house – separate the money – separate the schedule.

If you have to be silent, keep silent for a limited time.

I printed it out, folded it 6 times, and put it in my wallet. The next morning, I took the first step.

1) Barangay Hall

Barangay Hall was crowded. I filed a request for a mediation protocol: “marital conflict, extended family conflict.” Lupon Tagapamayapa scheduled an appointment. I brought my abogado – Atty. Sison.

Miguel came, Ate Liza came. I put two envelopes on the table:

Envelope 1: Draft temporary agreement (separation of finances, separation of accommodation, no harassment – ​​no contact outside the lawyer channel).

Envelope 2: Childcare schedule – not mine, but theirs. I made it clear:

“The child is not at fault. You two arrange your own childcare schedule, don’t push it onto me. If necessary, invite a DSWD advisor to assist the child, help her not grow up in lies.”

Miguel bowed his head: “I’m sorry.”
Ate Liza cried. I looked straight:

“You are my Ate. I am not bleeding you here. But from today, we are two parallel streams. When Nanay–Tatay are strong enough to bear the truth, you two will be the ones to open your mouth, not me.”

Lupon noted: the agreement is valid for 6 months, then reassess. I signed. My hand did not shake.

2) Laws and boundaries

In Atty. Sison’s small room, I heard the options:

Legal Separation (dividing assets, custody of children if any, not being able to remarry).

Annulment under Family Code (if there are grounds).

A petition for protection under RA 9262 if there is economic/psychological abuse.

Evidence of the incident (text messages, photos, timeline) to protect the assets and any claims.

I chose legal separation first—quick, clear, separating money – separating house – separating family. Criminal matter? Atty said there were very specific conditions, the person with the right to complain was deceased; however, my focus was on the future, not blood and fire.

We set up an inventory of assets; the joint account was frozen, transferred to court-supervised escrow. I opened a separate account, transferred my salary, blocked Miguel’s secondary card. I moved, changed all the passwords: email, bank, SIM.

I wrote 3 sentences and stuck them on the mirror:

I don’t owe anyone an infinite sacrifice.

I don’t vent my anger on the child.

I don’t lie to live on, but I have the right to postpone the truth to protect Nanay–Tatay.

An unscripted meeting with the child

On Saturday afternoon, Ate Liza texted: “She misses you.” I made an appointment for coffee and cocoa at a shop near the park. She ran in and hugged me: “Auntie!”

I sat down, so that my broken heart wouldn’t tear my 7-year-old heart further. I asked about dolls and songs in class. I avoided all questions about “why is the house strange?” As she went to wash her hands, I faced Ate:

“Take her to child psychology counseling. DSWD has a free list. She needs a safe adult to tell her what she dares not.

Don’t lie anymore. Don’t make up stories until you tell the truth.

And don’t ask me to play the role of a second mother. I need to heal. I love her, but I can’t continue to patch up the mistakes we made.”

Ate nodded, tears falling—this time no more begging for forgiveness, just sighing.

I bent down to tie her shoelaces, whispering:

“Auntie is always here. Not always close, but always here.”

I went back to Bulacan to visit home. Nanay was drying a batch of dried fish, Tatay was fixing a termite-ridden chair. I blamed “incompatibility” on asking to live alone for a while. Tatay looked at me, knowing it was a lie—he just didn’t open it.

That night, Nanay quietly brushed my hair like when I was a child:

“Daughter, when you want to talk, just say it. But I just need to know that you are still eating, still sleeping, still breathing.”

I cried for the first time in a month. Not because of Miguel or Ate. Because I had a place to fall without breaking.

I left an envelope on top of the cupboard:

“If the worst happens, ask the neighbor to give this envelope to you. In it are all the papers: the lease, the insurance, the medical certificate, the lawyer—so you know I am protected.”

The courtroom and a sentence

Two months later, the RTC held its first session. Miguel looked at me, wanting to say something. I looked straight at the judge:
“Your Honor, I did not come here to shame anyone. I came here to ask to separate my life from a life that betrayed me. And I ask you to grant me the right not to be forced to be the mother of a child I did not give birth to, even though I love him.”

My side suggested: assets divided according to the law, he takes the debt separately, I do not ask for alimony. Atty gently squeezed my hand: “You said enough.”

Out of the court, it was raining lightly. I stood under the porch, remembering Kuya Ben’s 6 lines. I had gone through all 6.

To you – the woman who thought she had died in a kitchen full of lies,

You are not as clean as the idea of ​​absolute strength. You tremble, you are afraid, you still love. But you stopped at the right place. You did not do more evil to punish evil. You pulled Nanay-Tatay away from the explosion zone. You did not turn the child into an emotional dumping ground. You do not forgive today? That’s okay. Forgiveness is not a bus ticket to catch up with someone, it is a road of many years.

One day, when you are at peace enough, you will tell the truth—not so that anyone dies, but so that no one dies of silence. At that time, let the other two stand before Nanay–Tatay and say, “We were wrong.”

As for me, live my part. Eat. Sleep. Work. Water the plants. Bake bibingka. Call home. Open the window every morning. Breathe.

— Me 30 days later

I folded the letter and placed it next to the newly bought bibingka mold. Outside the window, Manila was as noisy as ever. In the room, my heart still ached—but the pain had a way to breathe.

And if I see her again tomorrow at the school gate, I will bend down, pat her head, and repeat the only sentence I am sure of:

“Auntie is here. Not always near, but always here.” I made a 30-day plan for myself—not for “happiness,” just for breathing:

Days 1–7: sleep before 11am, eat enough breakfast; turn off contact with Miguel/Ate outside the lawyer channel; consult a counselor (DSWD/clinic).

Days 8–14: complete legal separation filing; close all financial channels; walk for 20 minutes every night.

Days 15–21: build “evidence & paperwork” box; update preliminary last will; talk to boss about team transfer so I don’t see Miguel.

Days 22–30: learn something new (I choose to make bibingka); write a letter to myself and a card to the girl—don’t send it, just to remember I loved her well.

Check one box every day. I can’t help but collapse in the middle of the night, but I still check one box in the morning. That’s enough.