Yesterday, it rained harder than it had in weeks.
As I drove home from work in Quezon City, I spotted my ex-wife standing under a small bus stop canopy, soaked through from the downpour. Her hands were clutched tightly around a faded purse, her thin frame shivering in the cold.
Something inside me twisted. Five years had passed since our divorce, yet seeing her again stirred a quiet ache I couldn’t neglect. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down the window, and called out softly:
“Althea! Get in! I’ll take you home.”
She turned, startled at first, then smiled faintly and nodded.
We had known each other since high school in Batangas. After graduation, life sent us in different directions and I went to Manila for college, and she studied in Cebu. For years, we changed only the occasional message.
But fate brought us back together after college when we happened to work in the same building.
We’d see each other in the elevator, at the cafeteria, and little by little, what was once friendship grew into something deeper.
Two years later, we married.
Everyone called us perfect together: me, a quiet engineer; her, a gentle, devoted teacher.
The early years of our marriage were peaceful and full of laughter. But as time passed, the laughter grew quieter. Three years went by with no child.
My family began to whisper. My mother, though kind, eventually urged us to see a doctor. The results altered everything and Althea was infer:tile.
I told her it didn’t matter, that I loved her the same. My mother even recommended adoption. But Althea couldn’t forgive herself. She believed she had failed me, failed to be the wife my family hoped for.
One night, I came home to find divorce papers on the table.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “You deserve a complete family. Let me go.”
I begged her not to, but her eyes were distant – resigned.
In the end, she walked away, leaving behind both our dreams and my heart.
Years passed. I buried myself in work, built a stable life in Manila. People said I was successful, but they didn’t see the emptiness that followed me home every night.
Then yesterday, seeing her in the rain, I realized the ache had never left.
When we reached her stop, she whispered, “I live here.”
The building was old such as cracked walls, rusted stair rails, shattered windows patched with cardboard. My chest tightened.
I followed her inside to escape the rain. Her small apartment was dim, the air heavy with dampness. But what stopped me cold was the photo hanging above the bed – our wedding picture.
It was yellowed with time, yet carefully framed, as if it still meant everything.
“Why do you still have that?” I asked softly.
She smiled faintly. “It’s not that I still hope… I just can’t throw it away.”
Later, as I drove home through the rain, her words echoed in my mind. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing her small, lonely room and the photograph that refused to fade.
Before I knew it, I was back at her building. I stood outside her door, hesitating, then it opened.
She looked amazed. “You? What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” I said quietly.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she stepped aside to let me in. The rain drummed softly outside, filling the silence between us.
I looked again at our photo, then at her. Memories overwhelmed me. I reached out, brushed her cheek, and before I could stop myself, I pulled her close.
She didn’t resist. We stood there, holding on to what we’d lost, letting the rain wash away years of pain.
By morning, the storm had cleared. She slept peacefully beside me, her hand resting on the blanket. I knew crossing that line was wrong—but it also felt like forgiveness. For both of us.
Before leaving, I wrote a note:
“I don’t know what the future holds, but I’ll always be here if you need me.”
Weeks later, a letter arrived at my office in her handwriting:
“I don’t regret that rainy night. I just want you to be happy. May it remain our most beautiful memory.”
Sometimes, I still walk past that old building. The small flower pot she tended is still there on the windowsill.
I never go inside án I just look up and smile softly, knowing that some loves never truly end. They simply find a quiet place in our hearts and stay there forever.