It was a rainy night in Tagaytay. Marites was sitting on the cold floor, hugging her slowly rounding belly. In the living room, Adriáp was talking in a low voice to a woman who didn’t need to be guessed. She no longer had the strength to ask: everything was clear.
He had sacrificed everything: he returned to his job, helped Adriáp raise his restaurant in Tagaytay, and humbled himself. But when the business was successful, the first words he heard were: “I love you now.”
At first, I thought I’d put up with it. For the baby. But then Adriá threw away the ultrasound and coldly said, “Do it, I’ll pay for everything,” only to know there was nothing to go back to.
He silently put away the few clothes and the money he had saved in his backpack. Before leaving, he looked at the wedding photo on the wall and said, “I won’t cry again.”
He took the bus to Cebu: the city was big enough to hide, far enough to be seen again, and far enough to start over.
When she arrived, she was five months pregnant. No home, no family, no job… only with the burning desire to live for her daughter.
She got a job as a waitress at a cafeteria near the pier. The lady, Doña Pilar, felt sorry for her and gave her a place to stay in a small room behind the kitchen. “That’s life as a woman. Sometimes you have to be braver than you think,” she used to tell her.
In October, twin girls were born at the district hospital. She named them Amiha and Liway, hoping their lives would be as serious and strong as their names.
Seven years passed. Now Marites owned a small flower shop on Calle Coló, enough to support the three of them. The twins were intelligent: Amiha, cheerful; Liway, serious… but both adored their mother.
One Christmas, while watching the news, Marites saw Adriáp on television: now a successful businessman in Tagaytay, owner of a restaurant chain, married to Catriona, still a lover. Holding hands, they smiled at the camera like the perfect family.
But Marites’ blood was no longer boiling. The anger had disappeared; only disappointment and bitter laughter remained.
He looked at his daughters, now beautiful and full of life. Girls his father had once wanted to abort, but who were now his greatest strength.
That night, she wrote on her Facebook post, which had been silent for seven years:
“I’m back. And I’m no longer the Marites I was yesterday.”
The Return
After Christmas, Marites moved with the twins to Tagaytay. She returned to a small house near the center and was named Mariel Saatos.
He didn’t need Adria’s recognition. He just wanted to see him feel the same bitter rejection and dejection.
She applied for a job as an events coordinator at the restaurants in Adriáp’s chain. With her identity, she quickly became known as Mariel: professional, strong, and easy to work with. Adriáp didn’t recognize her; on the contrary, he seemed obsessed with the employee’s charisma.
—“You look familiar. Have we met before?” asked Adriá at the corporate party.
Mariel smiled, a cold flash in her eyes:
“Maybe I’m a dream. But I’m the kind of woman who is easily forgotten.”
A strange iпqυietυd took hold of Бdriáп’s chest.
The Discovery
Weeks later, Adriáp began to feel drawn to Mariel’s presence. But she, for her part, dropped clues: the typical song he used to listen to, the dish he used to make for Mariel on her birthday, the line of poetry he used to share with her.
Adriáп could not remain silent. What was Mariel really?
He began to investigate his past, and the result was: Mariel Saatos, originally from Cebu, a single mother of twins.
Twins? A chill came over her.
One day, I went unexpectedly to Mariel’s house. When the door opened, two girls appeared. She looked at him and asked:
“Tito, why do I look so much like you?”
It was as if he threw υп bucket of cold agυa to Αdriáп.
Mariel came out, bringing her:
—“That’s right, you saw. You already know your daughters.”
Adriapa turned pale.
“You… are you Marites?”
She nodded.
“No. I am the mother of the girls you forced to abort. The woman you killed to be with you loved you.”
Adria was stunned. All the memories hit him: the time he had rejected his son, the coldness of her words. And now, in front of him, were two living girls who were proof of his sin.
That same night, Adriáp returned to Mariel’s house and knelt in front of the door. He cried:
“Forgive me. Give me a chance. Let me be my father.”
But Mariel responded firmly:
“You have no right to be a father. You didn’t choose them. You should have fought for them, you brought them down. Now you want to redeem yourself? My daughters are not trophies of your repentance.”
—“I just want to pay for my mistake…”
—“You’ll pay,” she interrupted. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll transfer 20% of your restaurant shares to the Foundation for Single Mothers. And you’ll write it yourself: as an apology.”
Adriáп trembled: “Are you υsaid to the girls to pressure me?”
Mariel smiled coldly:
“No. I am sorry for your sin to teach you responsibility.”
Months later, Mariel and the twins returned to Cebu. Adriáp stayed behind: thin, quiet, and a daily visitor to the foundation that held his name. He listened to the stories of women whose husbands he had killed, just as he had with Marites.
One afternoon, Amihap asked her mother:
“Mom, why can’t we call him dad?”
Mariel stroked the twins’ hair, surprised:
“Because he didn’t choose them. But I, I just left them. So just call me mom, that’s enough.”
And that’s where the story ends: not with a cry of anger, but with the silence of a strong woman. She chose to fight for her dignity and turned her own strength into her weapon.
She is the woman who was once struck down, but who in the end rose up and tasted justice.