“When I went to my ex-wife’s house after five years of divorce, I was shocked to see the photo she had hanging on the wall. I did something immoral…”

It was raining heavily yesterday.
On my way home from work in Quezon City, I saw my ex-wife waiting for the bus under the awning of a bus stop. The torrential rain was making her shiver, and her hands were clutching her small purse tightly to her chest.

At that moment, I felt a slight pain in my heart. Although five years had passed since our divorce, her face was still so familiar that it disconcerted me. Without thinking, I stopped the car, got out, and called her:

—Althea! Get in, I’ll take you home.

She turned around, her eyes showing slight surprise, then nodded with a weak smile and got into the car.

We met in high school in Batangas.
After the university entrance exams, I was accepted into a university in Manila, while she enrolled in a school in Cebu.
The distance caused us to gradually lose touch, only exchanging occasional greetings.

Four years later, after graduating and returning to our hometown for work, fate brought us together again.
My company and his were in the same building.
We saw each other daily in the elevator, in the cafeteria on the ground floor… and little by little, old feelings were rekindled.

Two years later we got married, with the blessings of both families.
Everyone said we were “a match made in heaven”: he, the quiet engineer; she, the sweet and loving teacher.

The first years of marriage were happy.
But three years passed… and no children arrived.

My family started to worry.
My mother advised us to go to the doctor.
The result was a bombshell:  Althea couldn’t have children.

I loved her just as much as ever, and my compassionate mother even suggested:
“If you really love each other, you can adopt a child.”

But Althea couldn’t overcome her guilt.
She lived tormented, believing she had failed me, that she had disappointed my mother by not being able to give her grandchildren.

One night, when I got home from work, he placed the divorce papers in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t give you a complete family. Let me go, and find your own happiness.”

I begged her, I tried to stop her, but her gaze was cold and painful.
In the end, we parted in tears.

Time passed like the wind.
I threw myself into my work, trying to fill the void in my heart.
Five years later, I had a stable job in Manila, a small apartment, and a life that everyone considered “fulfilling and stable.”

But  yesterday , the day I saw her again in the rain, I realized that my heart had never been at peace.

When the car stopped in front of an old apartment complex in Pasig, he said to me in a low voice,
“I live here.”

I looked at the aging building, the walls with peeling plaster, the rusty iron stairs, the broken windows covered with wooden boards.
I felt my chest tighten.

I followed her inside to avoid the rain.
The apartment was small, dark, and damp.
There was only a worm-eaten wooden table, a few vases with wilted flowers, and an old bed.

But what left me speechless was  the photo of our wedding hanging above the bed .

I couldn’t believe my eyes.
That photo—I thought I’d thrown it away a long time ago—and yet, after five years, I still had it, hanging in the most sacred place in that humble room.

I asked him gently,
“Why do you still keep that photo?”

She smiled weakly, her eyes filled with sadness:
“It’s not because I have hope… it’s just that… I can’t throw it away.”

On the way home, the rain was still pouring down.
I drove in silence, my mind racing.
The image of her sitting in that dark room, the yellowed photo of our wedding hanging on the wall, haunted me every minute.

How had she lived these past five years?
Why was she alone and so sad?

Then I began to ask myself:
Should I go back to her?
Not out of pity or obligation, but because I realized that  my heart had never stopped loving her .

I couldn’t sleep that night.
Anxiety drove me back to the old building where she lived.
Her room was still dimly lit.
I stood in front of the door, ready to knock… but I hesitated.

Suddenly, the door opened.
She stepped out, surprised:
“You?… What are you doing here?”

I stammered:
“I just wanted to make sure… you’re okay.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then let me in.
Inside the small room, the sound of the rain hitting the balcony made the atmosphere even more disorienting.

I looked at our wedding photo again.
The memories came flooding back: the happy days, the hugs, the tears of our parting.

I couldn’t resist.
I stepped forward, gently touched her reflection in the photo, and then gazed at her for a long time.
Our eyes met—no words were needed.

I knew I was about to do something immoral, because she belonged to my past, and I had promised not to hurt her again.
But in that moment,  my heart overcame my reason.
I hugged her tightly.

She didn’t push me away.
We just stood there in silence, with the sound of the rain falling on the metal roof.

The next morning, the rain had stopped.
She was still asleep beside me, her face peaceful, her slender hands clutching a corner of the blanket.

I sat up and looked again at the old wedding photo: yellowed, but still lighting up that tiny room.

I knew I had made a mistake, but I also understood that what happened last night  wasn’t a sin , but  a liberation  for both of us.
She needed to be loved, and I needed to forgive—for the years I had let her sink into sadness.

Before I left, I left a small note on the table:

“I don’t know what the future holds, but I’ll always be here if you need me.”

He never contacted me again.
But a few weeks later, I received a handwritten letter at the office:

“I don’t regret that rainy night. I just want you to be happy.
May that memory be the most beautiful thing between us.”

Over the years, I sometimes pass by the old apartment building and look towards the window where the small flowerpot she planted is still there.

I never go inside, I just stay there, gazing into the distance.
And amidst the hustle and bustle of Manila, I understand:
there are people who, even though they’re no longer here, will always hold a place in our hearts.