Angel Raymundo

It’s not the loneliness that gets to me. I’ve made peace with that. It’s the waiting.

I live in Manila, Philippines—a country where marriage is forever, even when love is long gone. Eight years ago, I walked out of that house with nothing but a duffel bag and my daughter’s tiny hand in mine. Since then, I’ve worked three jobs, skipped meals so she wouldn’t have to, and learned how to fix a leaking pipe with YouTube tutorials. I’ve done everything a single mother does, except in the eyes of the law, I’m still a wife.

At work, I smile at customers like my mind isn’t occupied with the price of rice. My daughter is fifteen now, old enough to see the difference between us and her friends. She tries not to ask for things, but I see the hesitation in her eyes when she lingers in front of a store window. “Maybe next time,” I always tell her. But I don’t know when "next time" will come.

Sometimes, I wonder if he ever thinks of us. I doubt it. No divorce means no child support. No legal obligation to be a father. He moved on, probably living with someone new, free to start over. Meanwhile, I am bound to a ghost of a marriage, trapped in a past I never chose to keep.

Once, I saw him in a mall. He was holding a woman’s hand, laughing, carrying shopping bags like money was never an issue. He didn’t see me, but for a moment, I wanted to walk up to him, to ask if he ever felt guilty. But I didn’t. I just turned around and walked away, like I always do.

They say marriage is sacred. That God himself tied the knot, and no man should dare untie it. But I don’t believe God wants women to suffer like this. To be abandoned and still be expected to carry the weight of vows someone else already threw away.

People tell me to wait. That change might come. That someday, we will be free. I am 35 years old. How many more years will they ask from me?