Crushed by the weight of her responsibilities, betrayal, and the loneliness of her Japanese life, she began to seek solace where she could find it — in fleeting hotel meetings with a young sailor, and eventually, in the captivating voice of a politician across the ocean.
It was now 2006, thirty years since I had graduated college. Having been the Student Government President during our time, I took it as my duty to be an active participant in our batch's Alumni Homecoming. I was appointed Chairman, tasked mainly with securing financial support. I often acted like a telephone operator from Japan, calling people for different concerns.
But my calls were not limited to reunion matters. A few weeks after returning to Japan, I called Michael — the young ship's crewman I had met briefly on a ferry — when I wanted to be comforted. He was young and seemingly unbothered by the kind of heavy concerns I carried. To him, life was simple, and I needed a piece of that.She is acting as a provider for Mitch's business, for Mitch's mother, for her siblings, and her community. Michael represents an escape where nothing is expected of her other than conversation.
I called him occasionally, until it became more frequent. We talked about unimportant things. What attached me to him was the fact that he would answer my call even when he was resting between shifts. Our conversations grew increasingly casual, opening the possibility for something romantic, though neither of us was particularly serious. Sometimes days would pass without contact, as prepaid cellphones in the Philippines had shifting numbers and sim cards.
A week before the reunion, I flew to Manila and stayed in a hotel. Michael was working at a shipyard nearby. We agreed to meet around noon inside a department store. I arrived half an hour early, choosing to wait at a store opposite our meeting spot because I wasn't entirely sure if I really wanted to see him. I even had a small wish that he wouldn't show up. But he did. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, carrying a small backpack. He looked darker, shorter, and less tidy than I remembered, scanning the crowd determinedly. Pitying him from a distance, I gathered my courage, took a deep breath, and walked toward him.
We went to a less crowded restaurant. While our appearance might have seemed innocuous to onlookers, the way we looked at each other communicated everything. It made me uncomfortable, feeling like everyone's eyes were on us.
We had already agreed he would come to my hotel. To avoid awkward questions from the front desk, we bought groceries and fruit — even a whole watermelon — so we would enter carrying several heavy bags. Michael was so polite that he wouldn't even open the refrigerator without my consent. He spent the night and left only when he had to return to work.
But once I was back in Japan, the dynamic shifted. He would become unreachable for days at a time. It disappointed me, yet it also challenged me. Perhaps his attitude was the product of my own emotional distance; I had only told him fragments about my life and refused to reveal my family name to protect my reputation in the province. Deep down, I felt the connection was temporary — a fleeting harbor. I didn't want him to hear the frustration in my voice, nor did I want to confront the possibility of another heartache.
In Marinduque, preparations for the reunion continued. The only pending task was delivering the invitation to the General Alumni President, Mr. DJ Pol *(not his real name)*. I couldn't clearly remember what he looked like, but I knew he lived in the mountains of Torrijos and served as an elected town councilor.
We drove to his gated concrete house, taking the remaining grocery donation packs intended for the poor. His young wife greeted us and sent someone to call him. When DJ Pol arrived — wearing shorts and a polo shirt — I recalled a memory of him once shaking my hand, promising to run as my vice mayor if I ever ran for office. We handed him the invitation, and he responded positively.
When we offered the excess groceries to his neighbors, they were overwhelmed with gratitude. One asked what they could do in return. I usually told them it was a gift from above, but as I saw DJ Pol smiling nearby, I slipped. "Just vote for him when he runs again," I said jokingly. I felt guilty immediately. My deal with God was supposed to be unconditional.
I stayed at my farm the night before the reunion and invited my best friend over to help me choose what to wear. Normally conservative, she surprised me by recommending the most revealing shirt I owned — a dark green, soft, body-hugging fabric with a collarless plunge that carelessly revealed a small part of my cleavage.
The homecoming was well-attended. Between conversations, I kept slipping away, trying frantically to call Michael, but his cellphone was out of reach. While I noticed some men in the crowd staring at my chest, nobody looked at me quite the way DJ Pol did when he approached to offer me a glass of red wine. I accepted, we talked, and he eventually asked for my number.
Within moments, the connection between DJ Pol and me accelerated. During Torrijos's Holy Week play, he escorted me to an elevated platform designated for VIPs. When I left the play early to avoid the crowd, my phone rang before I even entered the car. It was DJ Pol tracking my exit. From that night on, he began sending me poems and daily messages.
To raise funds for our college, our batch initiated a raffle draw. Eager to seek support from the Department of Education, I called John during office hours because he hadn't yet been informed. Calling from Japan with a blocked number, I told him who it was. He was thrilled to hear from me.
Because I had never spoken to him with my full attention, it was only then I realized he possessed a remarkably beautiful voice — deep, resonant, and captivating. It felt like I was listening to a radio broadcaster. When I pointed this out, he proudly told me he had actually worked for the provincial radio station. But it was more than just the quality of his voice. There was a charisma that transcended the way he spoke.
He told me he was traveling to another town that afternoon and suggested we talk during his commute. I didn't commit, but found myself calling him later that day. And the next day. And the day after that. We agreed I would keep my identity a secret from the driver. I told my friend Abe about it, secretly hoping she'd warn me of red flags, but even if she had, the chance I'd stop calling was slim.
I was falling in love with his voice. We talked about practically anything, sharing pieces of our personal stories across the ocean. There were times he would drive away from his house with his small children just to give us a chance to talk away from his wife. Strangely, though, I couldn't remember the features of his face.She falls for the voice first. Isolated in Japan, her connection to him is purely auditory—a disembodied intimacy that shields her from the complicated reality of a married politician in her hometown.
To fix that, I invited him to my place one Sunday after his part-time class. I asked my brother Junjun to secretly take photos of him reading my album. When I saw the pictures, I was embarrassed — the album showed photos of me where my "love handles" were clearly visible. But DJ Pol looked great. Wearing a white t-shirt tucked into his uniform pants, the thirty-year-old politician looked remarkably masculine. Studying the photos allowed me to memorize his features, making the phone calls all the more exciting.
An opportunity soon arose when John had to attend a meeting in Manila. Instead of staying with his mother-in-law, he spent the night at his sister's house. It was our first real chance for a serious, face-to-face conversation. Because he was a politician, his career depended on public perception. I wanted him to know exactly what kind of person he was associating with before he committed to anything.
After the day's routine, we settled in for a long conversation. I warned him he was in for a shock and assured him he could walk away with no obligations. I laid all my cards on the table, starting from my poverty-stricken childhood to where I stood now.
He proved to be an eager listener. By past midnight, we were still up. I kept shocking him, finally reaching the part about my recent hotel meeting with Michael, the sailor. It all clicked for him — he realized why my attention had been divided during the reunion. Unable to hide his concern, John bluntly asked an explicit question regarding my physical intimacy with Michael. I gave him an honest, biological answer, but refused to reveal Michael's identity.
Then it was his turn. He thanked me for trusting him and shared his own journey. At a young age, his dream life had been shattered by a single wrong move, leading him into a public service career. We realized how much we had in common: both rising from humble beginnings, surviving failures, and remaining fiercely driven toward our ultimate goals.
We agreed that our relationship, which was now official, could continue, but only if it didn't become a burden. I promised we would quit the moment I became a liability to his political career or if it risked my life with Mitch — because losing Mitch would cripple my ability to fund and build for the poor.
I didn't view his marriage as a barrier. A part of me even believed I could save other women from falling for him, and that eventually, his wife would have him all to herself.
Chapter 14 exposes the profound emotional isolation surrounding her sudden success. Betrayed by her siblings and extorted by her associates, she turns to brief, secretive romances to experience the one thing she is denied as a philanthropist: being cared for unconditionally. Her connection with DJ Pol — beginning as a radio voice across the ocean and culminating in a gritty midnight confession — establishes a partnership built entirely on radical honesty, shared ambition, and the pragmatic understanding that their respective missions (his politics, her charity) must always come first.