Kicked out of the house by my husband, I agreed to marry a construction worker to have a place to live, and 3 months later I was shocked to discover the truth.

I still remember that rainy afternoon—when I was kicked out of the house I once called “home” in Quezon City with only a suitcase of clothes and a phone that was about to run out of battery. My husband—the one who had sworn to “love you for life”—mercilessly threw me out onto the street after my second miscarriage.

“I married you to have children, not to raise someone who only knows how to cry,” he growled and slammed the door. The sound of the door was like a sentence.

I stood there, stunned in the rain. My parents died early, I had no siblings, and few relatives. All my friends were busy with their families. I got on the night bus to leave Manila, running away from the pain. I returned to Batangas, the poor countryside where I was born and left many years ago. No one remembered the good student Ha. I rented a small room next to the palengke, living day by day: helping sell vegetables, cleaning—doing whatever people asked.

Then I met Tomas.

He was the same age as me, working as a construction worker for a small team near the market. Tall, tanned, quiet, but with strangely gentle eyes. That day he stopped by the stall and asked:

“Have you just returned to your hometown? Why do you feel strange and familiar?”

I smiled awkwardly: “Very strange, but familiar because… we are both poor.”

Tomas laughed—rare but sincere. From then on, every afternoon after work, he stopped by to buy some vegetables, even though he clearly didn’t need that much.

One day, it rained heavily, and my rented room leaked everywhere. Tomas stopped by, saw me huddled under a blanket, and said:

“Come stay at my place for a few days. My room doesn’t leak. I live alone.”

I was confused but too tired so I nodded. He was kind, gentle, and didn’t cross the line. We lived in the same house but didn’t sleep together. He cooked rice, and saved some for himself; I washed and dried his clothes. Everything happened naturally.

One week. Then two. One afternoon, when he was clearing the table for dinner, he hesitated:

“I know you’ve suffered… I have nothing—no house, little money—but if you don’t mind… let’s get married?”

I was stunned. Part of me wanted to refuse because my wounds had not healed; the other part was that I longed for a real home. After all, I nodded.

The wedding was simple at the barangay hall: a few trays of food, a few construction team members. No wedding dress, no wedding bouquet. I wore my mother’s old Filipiniana; the wedding ring was a silver bracelet that Tomas had forged himself.

After marriage, life was surprisingly simple. Tomas still went to work, waking up early in the morning to cook lugaw for me before going to the construction site. I grew vegetables and sold them at the market. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t drink, didn’t gamble. When he came home at night, he only asked:
“Kumain ka na?
“Nalulungkot ka ba?

“May nanakit ba sa’yo?

I began to feel valuable—not because of whether I had children or not, but because someone considered me important.

Until one day, while cleaning the house, I discovered a wooden box hidden under my bed.

Curious, I opened it.

Inside was…

three land use rights certificates—all in the name of Tomas Reyes—and a time deposit book with a term of more than ₱1.8 million.

I was stunned. The factory husband who wore plastic sandals, ate dried fish with ginisang kangkong at night… had three plots of land and such a large amount of savings—and never said anything?

Why? Who was he really? Why did he choose to live like a poor person? And… why did he marry someone like me?

I put everything back where it was, but I couldn’t sleep all night. The questions kept coming: “Why did you hide me? Who are you? Did you intentionally approach me?”

The next morning, Tomas came home with a sweaty shirt, and I couldn’t help but say:

“Tomas… I’m sorry. I saw something under the bed.”

He paused, looked at me for a long time, then sat down. His voice was hoarse, his eyes not blaming—just tired:

“I knew this day would come. I didn’t intend to hide it from you forever.”

I held my breath.

“I’m not as poor as you think. I used to be a construction engineer, with a small company and my own house in Lipa. Four years ago, my wife… left me for someone else. She took all the company’s money, including the house’s title. I went bankrupt and almost committed suicide.

My mother—who had her name on the land—later passed away and left it to me. The money in the time deposit was saved by me from various jobs: construction site, tricycle driving, gardening for hire… I lived frugally not because I had no money, but because I wanted to learn how to start over. I didn’t trust anyone. I didn’t love anyone.”

He raised his head, his voice low:

“Then I met you—a skinny person, with eyes that were both painful and hard. I saw myself in you. I didn’t tell you the truth because I was afraid you would think I pitied you, or that I was using money to lure you in.”

“But… why did you marry me?” I mumbled.

He chuckled—so genuine:
“Because you didn’t ask me how much money I had. I just wanted a roof over my head, a meal, and someone who wouldn’t yell at me.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. After years of losing faith in men and marriage, this man—who made no big promises—had quietly given me the kindest things he had.

From that day on, we no longer hid from each other. He took me to a piece of land by the mangrove forest near the coast: where he planned to build a wooden house with his own hands.

“I plan to live alone until I’m old. Now that you’re here… let’s build two rooms.”

I nodded—for the first time, I felt like I was chosen, not “put up with.”

We envisioned a future: I grew organic vegetables, raised free-range chickens; Tomas used his knowledge to design drip irrigation, build barns, and roast coffee by hand to sell to the sari-sari shop at the end of the street. The land gradually became a peaceful garden—birds chirping in the morning, and the scent of coffee in the afternoon.

Three months later, the miracle happened: I was pregnant.

After two miscarriages in my previous marriage, I thought my uterus had “given up.” But this time—with a man who never asked me to give birth—I received a gift I thought I had lost.

Tomas hugged me, his hands shaking:
“I don’t need a child. You’re enough as long as I’m here. But if God blesses us with a child—that’s the most beautiful gift.”

I hugged him, tears streaming down my cheeks. For the first time, I understood: marriage is not a cage—it’s a home, a place where people voluntarily come and go every day.

Now, every morning I hear the sound of sawing wood, the sound of roosters crowing, the sound of my husband whistling while sweeping the yard. Life is still difficult, but I have never felt so rich—rich because of love, respect, and healed trust.

If I hadn’t been kicked out of my house, I probably wouldn’t have met this man—Tomas Reyes—who chose to live simply in the midst of the bustling Philippines, to love me with the kindest things.