The Promise

Some promises are made in the quiet — wrapped in a handkerchief, sealed without witnesses. This chapter follows the girl from the scholarship into the city, through the men who loved her and the one who lied, into a marriage that tested every part of her, and through the births that gave her reason to keep going.

The scholarship came with one condition: maintain a very good academic performance. For me, that was as sure as the sun rising every morning. At the time, there was nothing I wanted to do but study in order to succeed in life. I had been spending more time with books and other reading materials than playing — mainly because I enjoyed studying, and partly because my father knew when to be strict and when to be lenient.

Aside from me, there were other students who were granted the scholarship for poor but deserving students. We were all in the same class, just different in our majors. I chose to specialize in Mathematics because it had been my favorite subject since elementary. Most of my co-grantees had graduated from the same school we were enrolled in and were already familiar with the places and staff. Being the first batch of grantees, we were supportive of each other in the beginning — going to the bank together to receive the money, giving each other tips on where and how to get things done. But as we became more familiar with everything, we began doing things on our own or in pairs.

My landlady, Aling Fely, was an old maid who lived with her two nephews — the sons of her married sister next door. The elder was a tricycle driver and the younger was a college student. Aling Fely had a sari-sari store where one could buy basic daily needs. Because it was right across from the college gate, it sold well and was a favorite hangout for students, especially at night.

She was known for being strict, and everyone was afraid of her. But I began to win her praise when she saw how naturally I took on the housework — fetching water for the kitchen and bathroom, cleaning without being asked. The tenants had a schedule to divide the chores, but I treated the house as an extension of my own. I did what I used to do at home. After some time, Aling Fely offered to share her meals with me. We would eat together, and she would share her frustrations, stories, and rumors. She would also tell me what people from college and the neighborhood were saying about me.

True to my promise, I was eager to study. I would actively participate in class discussions and aim for the highest — if not a perfect — score on every written examination. When the end of the first semester came, our adviser announced the top student in the class, who would also receive a refund of the tuition fee. I was not aware of that system and was not quite ready to hear that I was only second best. The one who got the top slot was one of my co-SNPL grantees. She had graduated from the college's own high school and may have known about the refund but forgot to mention it. I did not bother to ask.

We were always together because she was renting a room in a house behind my place. We shared stories, and people would easily believe we were friends. And indeed we were — except that we were also academic rivals. Though it was difficult to separate the competition from the friendship, we managed to enjoy each other's company for a few more years. She had lots of interesting stories and was fun to be with. Unlike me, she was very sociable and fashionable — slim, tall, dark, and pretty — while I was chubby, short, fair-skinned, and average-looking. She had her kind of suitors and I had mine. We enjoyed talking about them and our love lives.

Her biggest influence on me was the habit of reading novels. She would borrow pocketbooks from the village leader's wife and recommend the ones she found interesting. She claimed she could finish a novel in a night or two, but I could not. I still preferred reading textbooks. I always made sure I had read the topic for the day before going to class, and I would read it again if something was unclear. And it was truly rewarding. If there was one thing some of my professors would remember me for, it would be when I supplied the word or phrase they could not recall during a lecture — or so it seemed. It may have been their way of finding out who came to class prepared.

She and I were popular in college for our roles in a play we performed under the English Dramatic Guild Club. I joined and won academic competitions, and as the leader of various clubs, I would take the microphone on stage to make announcements after the morning flag-raising ceremony. Winning the election as vice-president of the Student Government Organization was not difficult — and I later became president after the elected president dropped out. But convincing my adviser to approve my plan to run had been the bigger challenge. She was worried my academic performance would suffer. Her approval mattered deeply to me because I looked up to her as a model teacher and a person of integrity. She was well respected despite her detractors, and she handled her professional and family problems with her head held high. She hesitantly allowed me to run after I promised that my studies would remain my top priority.

More than a year later, I learned of a mutual admiration I had not expected. She had been invited as a guest speaker at a career orientation for graduating high school students. Some of them congratulated me afterward — she had used my story as an example of determination. She knew about my struggles and remembered how I spent holidays doing part-time work at school, manually washing graduation gowns and packing togas. She was not generous with words, but a keen observer could read her mind through her expressions. I believe I could — and in some moments almost won her smile. Coming from her, being part of that speech was the best compliment I had ever received — better even than the praise that came when it was announced I would graduate as Magna Cum Laude, an honor no one had ever received since the college was founded.

To graduate with honors was something I had worked toward since I entered college. Aling Fely's niece had graduated as Cum Laude and was hired as a high school teacher right after. Realizing that a college honor could be one's passport to a secure job, my mind was set — I would receive the same honor, if not better. My goal and my desire to excel were the wind behind my wings through those years.

Financial problems never left my family. Even though my father worked as hard as he could, the price of copra remained low and the harvests grew smaller. Providing food for my siblings — who were growing both literally and in number — was his most challenging responsibility. With my monthly allowance and tuition fee refunds, we somehow managed. I would give him some when I received the money, and he would give me some when I needed it later. My grandmother and aunt were also instrumental in our survival. I would help with their housework on weekends in return for rice and dried food to bring to my boarding house for the following week.

I owe my success in college to many people. But I wanted to give the most precious gift I could offer to my father. I asked him to come with me on graduation day to receive my diploma and the medal for graduating with honors. As always, he refused — he had nothing to wear. He asked my mother to go instead. But I was not willing to take no for an answer. He borrowed something from his cousin and marched with me.

Honor students entered later as their names and titles were called. Because I received the highest honors, he and I were the last pair to enter.

I was proud of him for occupying that place despite our economic status and family problems. He deserved the honor more than I did. While his was all hard work, I had fully lived those four years — and it was both an educational and wonderful experience.💡Does this college experience lead somewhere unexpected?The professional reputation built here becomes her lifeline through the darkest years ahead — and leads her to the man who changes everything.

The school year had just started and I was not yet familiar with the people in my new neighborhood when one night, my roommate and I, together with Aling Fely's niece Dorie — also my classmate — were sitting in front of the store. The place was at the corner of the main road and a small road leading to a residential area behind.

That night, some guys stopped at the store. One was talkative and funny; the other was quiet. The talkative one asked Dorie to introduce us. The funny guy was Jerry, a second-year student from another town. The quiet one shook my hand and said his name was Kim *(not his real name)* — Dorie's relative.

The following day, Dorie teased me. She said she had a feeling Kim liked me. Even before he could make any moves, people around me were already courting me on his behalf — pointing him out when he passed, telling me things he had said. Other than a simple hi and hello, we never actually sat and talked again. But his voice was easy to distinguish from everyone else's — and I was falling in love with it, and with everything he was doing.

I fell in love with his parents, who came to meet me, and with his brothers and youngest sister, who never failed to smile. By the time we became sweethearts, he had already occupied a significant part of my mind. He would invite me to meet his family, talk about our future together — he even showed me the spot where our house would be built. He introduced himself to my parents and was present at important moments. But he failed miserably at what a boyfriend would normally do to keep a relationship alive.

In fairness, he made random efforts I found sweet. He sometimes came to watch TV at Dorie's house even though they had their own set. Because the house was full, I would sit on a bench outside and he would sit beside me. I grew so fond of that memory that it became a kind of torture — sitting there hoping he would come, long after he had left for the city to work.

He first kissed me at Aling Fely's place one night after watching TV. The second time was in the living room — but Miss Fely caught us and cut the meeting short. Yet when he came on a surprise visit and we were alone, he never attempted anything beyond a passionate kiss. He was a gentleman.

He was already working in Manila when the organization I led held an evening dance party. It was a surprise to see him asking me to dance. He was a little drunk, his polo shirt half open, but I did not care. I danced with him, fixing his shirt, and enjoyed every moment.

He was back again for graduation, and his intention to attend was firm. Despite my many suitors, I had never entertained any of them. But during my practice teaching, another man won my attention with my mother's encouragement — she never liked Kim because he was slightly drunk when he first met my parents. I told Kim I had a new boyfriend because he kept neglecting me. It did not seem to bother him — I was quick to explain the new one had never touched me, and Kim was still my first kiss.

On graduation day, Kim brought food from his parents for the celebration. I saw him watching the ceremony from a distance. I saw him leave without a word — perhaps because my other boyfriend was with us. To my disbelief, Kim and his relatives also came to the celebration. My father, unaware of the situation, was busy entertaining everyone. When I thanked them for coming as they left, it was clear who I wished could stay longer. But he said he was going back to Manila soon.💡Does Kim come back?Kim resurfaces in a later chapter, in a way she never expected.

That summer after college graduation, I asked my youngest uncle, Jovie — the one I was closest to — if he could take me with him to Manila. He was a funny man who never ran out of jokes. His response was a quick yes. He was married with a baby girl and worked at a pharmaceutical company. Taking me meant additional responsibility — but he did it anyway. That was the beginning of an adventure in a place I hardly knew.

A few days after arriving at his place in Project 2, Quezon City, Uncle Jovie took me to a public university to enroll for a master's degree. I was in for my graduate studies in no time. Among my classmates — teachers and professors from different provinces — I was the youngest and only fresh graduate. Unknown to everyone, one reason I wanted to go to Manila was to follow Kim.

A married professor from Mindanao became my constant companion. I grew comfortable enough to share what I had never told anyone — my search for Kim. She suggested I send a letter to his old address. I sent a short message with the house telephone number. Weeks passed. Every time the phone rang, I hoped it was him.

Then one day: "Marisa, telephone!" My heart raced. I picked up the receiver.

"Hello," I said.
"This is Kim," the voice said.
I laughed. "You must be kidding. I know his voice well."
"It's really me. I got your letter."

I could hear a woman whispering in the background. When he could not convince me, an angry woman took the line. She said Kim was already married to her — that I should stop bothering him. I apologized and hung up. "It's over," I thought. But I had not spoken to the real Kim. There was a chance he never knew about the call.

Shortly after enrolling, Uncle Jovie scheduled me for a job interview at his company. I passed, and soon I was on the night shift — a contractual position in dextrose production. Classes during the day, housework, a little sleep, then work at night. After a few weeks, the schedule took its toll. I lost my wallet to pickpockets several times. I was shocked at first but eventually thought: they must have needed the money more than I did.

Uncle Fred's wife, Aunt Mildred, was an elementary school teacher in Quezon City. That summer, she helped me inquire about teaching openings at the Schools Division Office. The division needed teachers, and applicants were required to take an exam in their subject. As a fresh graduate, I found the Math questions manageable — thanks to my former mentors.

A letter came inviting me for an interview. The interviewer was the Assistant Division Supervisor in Mathematics — a soft-spoken woman in her late forties whose manner of speaking carried no tone of authority. We talked about different things, and then she asked me a question I had not prepared for: What is your idea of a good teacher, and why?

I paused and took a deep breath. Suddenly, my life as a child of my parents came in handy. A teacher is supposed to be like a parent. So I said: "My idea of a best teacher is one who loves his or her students. Because if you love your students, you will do everything for them."

That must have sealed it. Days later, another letter came. I was assigned to teach Mathematics at Quezon City Science High School — a school known for producing excellent graduates. A co-teacher later told me I was the top scorer among all the Math applicants. I had not expected that. One of my worries was that I would be outranked by applicants from Manila universities. Apparently, being educated in the province was no hindrance.💡How does this teaching career shape what comes next?The professional standing she builds as a public school teacher becomes her financial lifeline — and ultimately the very thing that attracts the wrong man.

But that year was a testing year. Not long after classes began, Aunt Esther died — reportedly after accidentally drinking animal medicine stored in a client's refrigerator. I sent money home to Marinduque when I received my first salary, but the reaction was not what I expected. My family said they were struggling. My mother had gone to work with my father in the coconut fields — something she had never done. My younger brother Ramir quit his studies; he could not stand studying with barely any allowance while our mother was gambling.

Then came the worst news: our house in Marinduque had caught fire and was completely destroyed. My two younger brothers had made a cooking fire under the house and left without putting it out. The wind carried it to the coconut husks stored there. It happened in broad daylight, but nothing could be done. My Department Head offered comforting words and later handed me a bath towel as a gesture of support. I thanked her, but I could not help wondering whether she — or anyone — believed my story.

They had reason to doubt. A new teacher, barely a year in, claims her aunt died from drinking animal medicine, her brother dropped out, and now her house burned down — all in one school year. It sounded like a story someone would invent for sympathy. But every word of it was true.

While waiting for my teaching assignment, I was back to my usual routine — working, studying, and helping with chores. I could wash my clothes outside near the gate, and that was where JB *(not his real name)*, Tito Fred's wife's nephew, would sometimes keep me company. He was a staff member at a famous fast-food restaurant nearby. He was also from Marinduque and knew some of my friends, so we always had something to talk about.

JB and I became closer. We would go to church on Sundays and eat out on his days off. He would come to Uncle Jovie's living room in the evenings to talk — as if to show he was courting me. There was privacy there because my aunt-in-law went to bed early with the baby, and Uncle Jovie was always at work. Before long, we had a mutual understanding as lovers.

Since my teaching job started, he would accompany me to school every morning. We had to take a jeepney to the highway and then a bus. The school was about two hundred meters from the bus stop, and he would walk me to the gate. Students who arrived early would see us from the playground, and some girls would giggle. JB was a handsome guy — people who work in fast-food restaurants are known for being good-looking, and it was undeniable when he invited his coworkers to his birthday party. He introduced me as his girlfriend, and I had a chance to see them up close.

When a relative hired me to tutor her three daughters after school, my work would end late in the evening. JB would come and we would go home together. He would not let me travel alone at night. At times when I finished early, I would call his office and he would leave work just to keep me from waiting. JB was to me what Kim was not.

Before JB, there had been my birthday. Kim had visited me weeks earlier — the real Kim, this time — after his friend confessed about the fake phone call. He promised to come back on my birthday, which was only weeks away. I believed him, as I always did. I prepared food and waited. He never called. Not even a phone call came that day. He had been my boyfriend since first year of college, when I was only sixteen. Now that I had turned twenty and become a professional, he was still the same guy I had fallen in love with four years ago — full of promises he could not keep. But there were reasons to celebrate. JB was there to cheer the day up. I had tried to keep my distance from him since Kim's visit, but because Kim broke his promise again, I thought I might as well give myself a chance to find the right person. It had always been my excuse whenever I entertained other suitors. I had tried to understand Kim when we were separated by the distance between Marinduque and Manila. But now that we were both in the city and he had my telephone number, he had no excuse left to neglect me.

Thanks to JB, I forgot about Kim entirely. So when he called again out of the blue — inviting me out for his birthday — I had no difficulty refusing. I told him I already had another boyfriend. He hung up without asking questions.

However, the relationship was not free from outside pressure. With the time and attention JB spent on me, he could no longer be the usual brother and nephew to Tito Fred's family. His cousins began showing their disapproval — saying things meant to insult me when I was close enough to hear, spitting when I passed, singing songs with lyrics changed to fit their purpose. JB's health was deteriorating too. He would sometimes miss work because he was not feeling well. Aunt Mildred was beginning to worry. JB had been planning to work abroad — if that happened, he could be the breadwinner of his family back in Marinduque. Having me in his life might change those plans.

But what really caused our breakup was our inability to adjust to each other's beliefs. JB had lived in Manila for some time, where premarital intimacy was not uncommon. We would kiss passionately in private — that seemed enough at first — but he would attempt to cross the boundary. I would not let him, and I tried to explain why. He was kind enough to understand and even praised my conviction. But he was surrounded by men whose girlfriends were more liberal, and their stories wore at his patience. After several more attempts, he grew cold. In the end, I found myself running after him. I would try to talk, even going upstairs to his room, but he had made his decision. So I made mine.

I decided to move out of Uncle Jovie's place. The environment had become too unfriendly. I found an apartment accepting lady bed-spacers a few blocks away — along the main road, closer to the market, grocery store, bank, and church. I asked JB for my share in our joint bank account so I could pay the deposit.

My second teaching assignment was at Juan Sumulong High School in Cubao, just outside the busiest commercial area in the city. It was a permanent position and closer to my place. I came as a replacement for someone who was well-liked by many — she and the principal were from the same province. Taking her place in the classroom seemed less challenging than finding a place in their hearts.

The school year had barely started when my first challenge began. The assistant principal, Mr. Vice, called me to the principal's office. He was with a male faculty member, Mr. Pal — the principal was not there. He asked if I had a boyfriend. I said no. Then he asked if they could invite me out for a drink. I said, "If I went out with you, I would be even less likely to find a boyfriend."

He was offended — especially when Mr. Pal laughed at him. "What do you mean by that? Who do you think you are talking to?" he asked. I apologized and turned to leave. But before I reached the door, he said, "You will regret what you said."

Not long after, a man began appearing at the school corridor when we signed the logbook at night. A few nights later, he walked out with us and introduced himself as Benny — a private school teacher from Cagayan, working in the next town. He was handsome, broad-shouldered, tall, and neat. I had a feeling he was sent by Mr. Vice, and that this had everything to do with our encounter at the principal's office. But I let him be. I was on top of the situation, I thought.

After that first meeting, Benny came back again and again. With Mr. Vice in mind, I accepted him as my boyfriend. I did not tell him what happened, and he did not bring it up. Our intimate time was only at the movies — he would pull me close, let my head rest on his shoulder, and kiss me from time to time. On occasion, he would ask me to go to a motel, but I never did.

One night, he invited me to a bar after picking me up from school. I was hesitant — I had never been to a bar, and I was still in uniform. But he was determined. And I was right to be suspicious: Mr. Vice was there, with Mr. Pal and other male teachers from my school. Benny introduced me as his girlfriend. They asked how he was as a boyfriend, and I told them his good qualities and how he respected me. I wanted them to realize they had not won anything yet.

When things between us felt settled, Benny came one day looking different. We went to a mall as usual, but he was quiet. We found a bench and sat. He started by apologizing and saying he truly loved me. Then, crying, he told me: he had accidentally gotten a co-teacher pregnant. She was asking him to marry her. If he refused, he could lose his job.

He asked me to marry him instead. It came as a shock — but what I must not do was clear. I told him not to worry about me. I was old enough to take care of myself. He must think of the child who was coming and had nothing to do with what happened. I told him he would eventually learn to love the woman. And because he knew my family situation, it was not hard to explain why marrying him would only make things worse for me.

Knowing it would be our last date, we tried to forget his problem and enjoy the rest of the day. When he took me to my place, I made him promise to take care of his new family — and not to come see me again. He never did. The next time we spoke was years later at a school event, when he introduced his son to me and asked him to call me Aunt Maris. I was happy to see them together.

I have met many people in my life, but I did not include them all in this story — only those whose presence led somewhere. Benny was one of them. He was not just a boyfriend who came and went. He was the reason I walked into the recruitment agency where I would meet the man who became my husband.

My family needed more money. Our house in Marinduque had been destroyed by fire, and loans were mounting. I had thought of working abroad as a domestic helper — it was common among Filipino women at the time. Benny knew about my plans. One day, he brought me a pamphlet given to him by the parents of one of his students who were working in a recruitment agency. The office was in Mabini, Manila — a place known for cabarets and bars, which made me uneasy at first. But the agency was legitimate. I applied, secured my passport, and waited. They found an employer for me sooner than expected. But with the frequent news about helpers being mistreated, raped, or killed abroad, I decided not to go.

I went back to the agency to collect my passport. Across the street was another agency — much more crowded. I asked one of the people in line what they were applying for. "Apple picking in America," he said. That sounded better than domestic work. I went in, paid a small fee for the application form, and submitted my documents.

On the day of the interview, I waited in line. There was a liaison officer going up and down the stairs carrying folders. He knew I was there — he gave me the quiet Filipino nod of recognition. The interview with the agency owner, a woman, did not last long. She asked why a permanent public school teacher would want to pick apples in America. I told her my family situation.

As I headed downstairs, the liaison officer asked how it went. Before I could leave, he asked if I would like to have some cold drinks at the nearby restaurant. I looked at him. The young office clerk chimed in: "Don't worry, he is still single and he is the owner's nephew."

"I won't take much of your time. My name is Marlon, by the way," he said, offering his hand. He pointed me toward a restaurant along the main road. Hesitantly, I agreed. He ordered two soft drinks and some sandwiches. He sat across from me, and I got to look at him closely — white complexion, narrow eyes, fairly big nose. His mouth looked small but opened wide when he ate. We talked mostly about me. I was not interested in knowing him.

A call came from the agency soon after — but it was Marlon, not the office. A personal call. He said he was free and thought of chatting. He called again and again. One day, he asked if he could go to church with me on Sunday. I tried to refuse, but he insisted. So I gave him directions.

He talked about a proposal. He said if my main reason for going abroad was to help my family, he could help me do that — if I married him. He claimed his family was rich, with a large farm in the province and valuable properties. His father, he said, had been a businessman before he died. He presented the choice like two unknown paths: work abroad with strangers and risk my life, or marry him and stay in the Philippines where other options were possible.

So we began to go out. He was a gentleman — assisting me on and off jeepneys, keeping me on the safer side of the road, insisting on paying. He would kiss me at the movies or in the garden of my place before he went home. I did not enjoy his company or his kisses. I would close my eyes tight when his face came near mine. I would not kiss him back — I kept thinking of his wide tongue with a split on its tip. But accepting him was part of the deal.

One day, he invited me to Rizal Memorial Park after Mass. We found a shaded area under big trees. Instead of sitting beside me, he sat across from me on the ground and said he had a confession. He looked serious. He told stories of being the son of a rich businessman, of having influential friends, of his experiences with women, of killing thieves who stole farmers' carabaos, of being wanted by police for killing a co-trainee in the military. He said he was a changed man now — he had attended a church retreat and confessed his sins.

I sat still. I ran out of words. Should I leave? What should I say? I only cried. Then suddenly, he laughed out loud and said it was all a joke — he just wanted to see how I would react. It was a relief, but I warned him never to make that kind of joke again.

He invited me to his hometown for All Saints' Day — to meet his family and arrange the wedding. We left in late October, taking an evening bus. A typhoon caught us on the way. We arrived in darkness, the electricity cut, and took a tricycle to a house where a woman carrying a lamp opened the door. I was introduced to Marlon's mother and two sisters. The house was full of neighbors sheltering from the storm. That scene was familiar to me — in our village, people with weak houses would move to concrete ones during typhoons. It gave me the impression his family was comparatively well off.

Marlon and I were put in one room upstairs. I wanted to protest — he was not my husband yet. But the rest of the house was packed. I agreed to share the bed. He could not do anything with everyone around, I thought. He pulled me close and talked about his plans, reassuring me of the deal. Then he started to kiss me, and his intentions became clear. He was forceful and aggressive, repeating that he loved me and was going to marry me. I was able to hold him off for some time — I had gone to bed without removing my jeans, and that helped. But the heavy rain on the roof drowned every sound, and it was still hours until morning.

I had a choice. I could shout and force myself out, or give in to the man I had already chosen to marry. I chose the latter — but I talked to him first. I asked him to promise again that he would marry me and help my family. Any man would promise heaven and earth under those circumstances.

I knew I did not love him at all. I thought of praying. Whatever was in God's plan, I would need a stronger heart and His guidance to do my part.

Days passed, but Marlon was not taking me anywhere. He would go out drinking with friends, leaving me in the house. I was expecting him to show me their farm or introduce me to relatives, but he did not. He began asking me for money — for food, for alcohol. When I asked when he would start preparing for the wedding, he said it plainly: he had no money. Then he confessed that he had lied about being rich.

I was not shocked. I was beginning to accept the reality that I had made a huge mistake and could no longer run from it. He had tricked me into believing he would help my family — but it was he who needed help. Feeling trapped, I urged him to process the documents for a civil wedding. I said I would pay for everything. I did not want to go back to work still single after what had happened.

There was no swearing, no I do's. The judge said he was late for something and left us with his secretary, who had us sign the marriage contract. We took a tricycle back to the house where a few visitors waited. With my limited cash, we bought some meat, some bihon, and some fish. Marlon's family slaughtered a dog and cooked it as an addition. The food was served on the round dining table. Except for drinking, the event was over in a few hours.

We went back to Manila. My boarding house was not expecting me to return married. I pleaded the owner to let us stay until we found a place. We ended up at Uncle Jovie's — in JB's old room. He had already gone abroad. It was an awkward feeling: I had been there as JB's girlfriend, and now, two years later, I was back with my husband.

I tried to be more accommodating with Marlon while limiting his rights over my body. I would not let him kiss my lips anymore. He was clearly a stranger to me. As I discovered his true character, keeping him employed became a struggle. He worked briefly as a security guard at a hotel but quit. My uncle recommended him at his company, but the English interview did not go well. When asked what else he could do, Marlon replied, "That else, Sir."

A miscarriage came just months after the wedding, and then a premature birth a week past our first anniversary. We had moved to a small house near shoe factories — the rental was affordable despite the unhealthy surroundings. By the time I was seven months pregnant, we had a small TV, a gas stove, a dining set, a wooden bed — and I was broke. Marlon had been fired from a cosmetics factory after dropping his glove into the machine. He was waiting for another call. I had been taking salary loans since the wedding, and my take-home pay kept shrinking.

I did not go to school one day because I could not afford the fare. Instead, I washed clothes by hand in the bathroom while Marlon watched TV. Next to having sex and eating, he loved to watch basketball. I began to feel pain in my back and stomach. Thinking it was fatigue, I ignored it — until the pain became severe. My neighbor said it could be labor and urged me to go to the hospital. I told Marlon, but he would not remove his eyes from the screen. I shouted, hoping the factory workers next door would hear and force him to move. It worked.

My first child was born. I was happy to see her — but heartbroken. She was so tiny she could have fit into my shoebox. She was too weak and had to stay in an incubator. I realized it was my fault. I was sorry I had failed to give her proper nutrition. I was not sure I could provide for her future needs, but I asked her to be strong and never give up.

She was still in the hospital when I had to leave. I pumped breast milk to send for her bottle feedings. Being used to bottles, she could not latch on to me, and my milk dwindled. I started giving her formula. I was twenty-three, but my experience caring for my own siblings proved useful. I wanted to protect her and give her everything — but wishing and doing were two different things.

To earn more, I accepted a tutoring job from an aunt. The pay was good and the house only two rides away. It had been just a month since giving birth, but I took it. I would leave the baby with Marlon, the formula for each serving prepared in a separate container with clear time gaps. When I returned, all three servings had been consumed at once. He claimed the baby was crying. I lost my temper and said something that offended him. He took a knife from the kitchen, pushed me against the wall, and acted as if he was going to stab me — stopping just before the blade touched my skin.

I was not afraid — it was not the first time. I was more concerned about how much worse he could get. If he could do that when I came home from work and should have been resting, what would he do under ordinary circumstances? I knew I had to prepare for the worst. I realized I had not only made a huge mistake in believing his lies — I had made a wrong decision when I still asked him to marry me after discovering the deception. But I told myself what people say: God does not give us problems we cannot handle.

Too much stress had caused a hormonal imbalance — my cycle had been irregular since giving birth, coming twice a month or not at all for months. I was not taking contraceptives, and Marlon was not careful. A pregnancy test came back positive. I told Marlon when he got home. He was sitting in the living room. I waited for his reaction but got nothing. He was quiet. The first thing out of his mouth was, "What's for dinner?" I realized how foolish I had been for expecting something.

I went back to work pregnant with my second child. Having learned from experience, I was more careful with my food and secretly saved money for the delivery. My doctor could not predict the due date because of the irregular cycle. On December 14th, I decided to have myself checked. After seeing me, the doctor said I should not leave the hospital — she was going to induce me the following morning.

Marlon came the next morning wearing his uniform. He claimed he could not miss work. I found it unconvincing but did not ask him to stay. The procedure started at eight o'clock. I was in pain for hours, but the baby would not come. By five in the afternoon, we decided on a Caesarean — the doctor said the baby could be in danger. They prepared the documents and asked where my family was. I told them I had been alone the entire time. They were stunned. They said they had never seen a case like mine. But the waiver had to be signed, so they had me sign it myself.

When I woke up, my child was brought to me. A healthy baby boy. The nurses liked to carry him around because he was already handsome — he did not look like a newborn. I thanked God we were both safe. I dedicated my child to Him and chose a name to symbolize that: Emmanuel. But when Marlon came later, he wanted the name Michael. So I registered him as Michael Emmanuel.💡Why does this name matter?This child's name — dedicated to God — carries a significance that becomes clear in the final chapters.

Marlon asked where I would get the money to pay the hospital bills. I told him about my secret savings. I had somehow known I would not have a normal delivery, so I was financially prepared. But shortly after we got home, he announced he was going to his hometown for a reunion and a fiesta — with no clear return date. He could not take a single day off for his wife giving birth alone, but now he was taking an indefinite vacation. My mother came to look after me and her new grandchild. Nobody stopped him from leaving.

This chapter holds the longest arc in the record — and perhaps the most painful one. A girl who graduated Magna Cum Laude, whose father could barely afford clothes for the ceremony, walked straight from that triumph into the arms of a man who lied about everything. She did not walk blindly — she weighed two unknown paths and chose the one that seemed less dangerous. The tragedy was not that she chose wrong; it was that either path led into darkness.

And yet the promise held. The one made to her father, wrapped in a handkerchief with a wristwatch inside. Through the knife against her skin and the empty delivery room, through the formula containers and the basketball games her husband watched instead of holding his newborn — the promise was never broken. It was simply waiting for the right moment to be fulfilled.