I remember that rainy afternoon perfectly: I was kicked out of what I once called “home” in Quezon City, carrying only a suitcase of clothes and a phone with almost no battery. My husband—who vowed to “love me forever”—mercilessly threw me out on the street after my second miscarriage.

“I married you to have children, not to take care of someone who only knows how to cry,” she growled, and closed the door behind her. That blow was like a sentence.

I stood there, motionless in the rain. My parents died young, I had no siblings, and few relatives. My friends were busy with their own families. I took a night bus to flee, escaping the pain. I returned to Batangas, the humble village where I was born and which I had left years ago. No one remembered what a good student I was.

I rented a small room next to the market and lived from day to day: helping sell vegetables, cleaning, doing whatever job was offered to me.

Then I met Tomas.

I was my age, working as a construction worker for a small team near the market. Tall, tanned-skinned, quiet, but with an unusually tender look. That day, he stopped at the stall and asked me:

“Have you just returned to your province?” There’s something strange but familiar about you.

I smiled without hesitation:

“Strange, but familiar… because we are both poor.

Tomas laughed, a rare but sincere laugh. Since then, every afternoon after work, I would go shopping for vegetables, although I clearly didn’t need them.

One day it rained very hard and the room I was renting began to leak everywhere. Tomas stopped, saw me curled up under the blanket, and said:

“Stay at my house for a few days. There are no leaks here. I live alone.

I was confused, but so exhausted that I nodded. He was kind, respectful, and never crossed boundaries. We shared the same house, without sharing a bed. He cooked rice, saved what he could; I washed and hung out his clothes. Everything happened naturally.

One week. Then two.
One afternoon, while cleaning the table for dinner, he stopped and said:

“I know you’ve suffered… I have nothing: no house, no money… But if you don’t mind, would you marry me?

I was shocked. A part of me wanted to refuse, my wounds had not yet healed; but another part longed for a real home. I nodded without thinking.

The wedding was simple, in the barangay hall: a few trays of food, some construction mates. No white dress, no bouquet. I wore my mother’s old Filipiniana; the ring was a silver bracelet that Thomas himself melted down.

After we got married, life was surprisingly simple. Tomas continued working, he got up early to prepare rice and broth for me before going to the construction site. I grew vegetables and sold them in the market. He never raised his voice, he didn’t drink, he didn’t play. When I returned at night, I only wondered:

“Have you eaten?”
“Are you sad?”
“Did someone hurt you?”

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

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

Curiously, I opened it.

Inside were three certificates of right to use land — all in the name of Tomas Reyes — and a fixed-term deposit book for more than ₱1.8 million.

I was stunned. The worker who ate only dried fish with vegetables, who wore plastic sandals… He owned three plots of land and had saved a large sum—and he never mentioned it.

Why hide it? Who was he really? And why did he marry me?

I put everything in its place and couldn’t sleep all night. The questions did not stop: “Why did you hide it? Who are you? Did you approach me on purpose?”

The next morning, Tomas came back with his shirt sweaty and I couldn’t contain myself:

“Tomas… I am sorry. I found something under the bed.

He stopped and looked at me for a long time, before sitting down. His voice sounded harsh and his eyes were tired, without rancor:

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

I held my breath.

“I wasn’t as broke as you think. I was a construction engineer, had a small business and my own house in Lipa. Four years ago my wife… He left me for another, taking everything, even the house titles. I went bankrupt and almost took my own life.

My mother, who had a land deed, died and left me those properties. I collected the money from the time deposit by working on construction sites, driving a tricycle, gardening for a few coins… I lived with austerity not for lack of money, but to learn how to start over. I didn’t trust anyone, I didn’t love anyone—until I met you.

He looked up, in a soft voice:

“I saw in you someone fragile but resilient. I didn’t tell you the truth for fear that you would think you pitied me or that I was using my money to lure you in.

“But… why marry me?” I whispered.

He laughed, sincerely:

“Because you never asked how much money I had. I just wanted a roof, a meal, and someone who wouldn’t yell at me.

Tears welled up in me. After years of no faith in marriage or men, this man—without grand promises—quietly offered me the most precious thing he had.

From that moment on, there were no more secrets. He took me to a piece of land near a mangrove forest along the coast: he planned to build a wooden house with his own hands.

“I thought I would live alone until I grew old. But now that you’re here… Let’s build two rooms.

I nodded—and for the first time I felt chosen, not tolerated.

We dreamed of a future together: I grew organic vegetables, raised free chickens; Tomas designed a drip irrigation system, built small cabins, and brewed artisanal coffee to sell at the sari-sari store at the end of the road. The land became a peaceful garden—with birds singing in the morning and the aroma of coffee in the afternoon.

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

After two previous miscarriages, I thought I would no longer be able to have children. But this time, with a man who never pressured me to have them, I received a gift that I thought I had forgotten.

Tomas hugged me, trembling:

“I don’t need children. You are enough. But if God blesses us with one, it would be the most beautiful gift.

I hugged him and tears rolled down my cheeks. For the first time I understood: marriage is not a cage, it is a home—a place to which one arrives and returns every day for love.

Now, every morning I hear the touch of wood, the crowing of the rooster, the whistle of my husband sweeping the yard. Life is still hard, but I never felt so rich—rich in love, respect, and trust.

If I hadn’t been kicked out of the house, maybe I would never have met Tomas Reyes. He chose to stay in the middle of the busy Philippines, just to love me with the noblest thing he possesses.