My husband’s mistress and I were both pregnant by him. My mother-in-law said, “Whoever gives birth to a boy gets to stay.” I walked away without hesitation—and seven months later, their whole family came begging me for forgiveness.
I discovered that Marco had another woman.
And the worst part? His entire family knew about it.
When the truth came out, I expected anger, or at least a little shame. Instead, during a so-called “family meeting” in Quezon City, his mother, Aling Corazon, looked straight into my eyes and said coldly,
“There’s no point discussing this anymore. Whoever gives birth to a boy will remain in this family. If it’s a girl, she can leave.”
I was stunned by her words.
So to them, a woman’s worth was measured by the gender of the child she carried.
I turned to Marco, hoping he would defend me—but he remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.
That night, standing by the window of the house I once called home, I knew everything was over.
Even if the child in my womb turned out to be a boy, I could never raise him in a home filled with hatred and discrimination.
The next morning, I went to City Hall. I obtained the legal separation papers, signed them, and walked away without looking back.
Outside the building, tears streamed down my face—but for the first time, my chest felt lighter.
Not because I wasn’t hurting. I was.
But because I had chosen freedom. For my child. And for myself.
I left with almost nothing: a few clothes, some baby items, and the courage to start over.
In Cebu, I found a job as a receptionist at a small clinic.
As my belly grew, I learned how to laugh again.
My mother and a few close friends became my real family.
Meanwhile, Marco’s new girlfriend, Clarissa—a woman who appeared sweet but loved luxury—was welcomed into the Dela Cruz household like a queen. She got everything she wanted.
Whenever guests came over, my former mother-in-law proudly introduced her:
“This is the woman who will give us the son who will inherit our business!”
I said nothing. I no longer felt angry.
I simply trusted time.
Time always reveals who people truly are.
A few months later, I gave birth in a small public hospital in Cebu.
A baby girl—tiny, perfectly healthy, with eyes as bright as the sunrise.
The moment I held her, all the pain I had carried seemed to disappear.
I didn’t care in the slightest that she wasn’t the “son” they wanted.
She was alive. She was mine. And that was all that mattered.
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