The Love That Didn't End

I met him in 2004. It was a despedida party because my sister and I were leaving for Japan and he was there with his brother, who was my sister’s boyfriend at the time. Among all the noise and laughter that night, he stood out without trying. He was tall, handsome, and kind of funny. I noticed him and he immediately became my crush that night, though neither of us knew what that moment would grow into.

Months later, while I was in Japan, I saw him again through a screen. My sister was chatting with her boyfriend, and I saw him pass behind the camera. Without thinking, I teased, “uyyy si papa (insert his name).” My sister told him what I said so I blushed. It was small and innocent, but somehow it stayed with us.

A year later, I returned to the Philippines to continue college and celebrate my 18th birthday. Before my birthday, my sister would take me out with her friends and her boyfriend would always be there and so would he. They always came together and somehow, without planning it, my sister and her boyfriend would go missing, leaving the two of us talking. It felt easy and natural like we already knew each other.

I saved his number on my phone and named it papa (insert his name). When he found out, he laughed and saved mine the same way, mama (insert my name). That was how we were. Playful, warm, and already close before we ever knew what we were becoming.

We fell in love without effort. Without confusion. Without fear. We didn’t circle each other cautiously. We recognized each other right away. On my 18th birthday, he was there. He was my 18th rose. And from then on, the love only grew. Just a month after we knew we were deeply in love. We chose an anniversary date because we didn’t really know the exact date when we started being a couple. We chose July 7 and that is when it became my favorite date.

One year into our relationship we found out I was pregnant. When my pregnancy became known, I was asked to leave our house. It was kind of old-school but in our family when you get pregnant, you have to leave and be with the man who got you pregnant. My grandmother wanted to keep me, I know she did, but rules were rules, I guess. And so I left and moved with him to his parents' house. I didn’t know what to feel as I was very shy, scared, and confused on what I should do if I face his parents. I was quiet when I faced them. I somehow know they were disappointed and I felt bad because for a person as good as their son, It felt like I was the only mistake he had ever made. But he was so good to me. He made sure that I feel every ounce of love that he had for me and our unborn child. We lived in the same house but in separate rooms. As Christians, there were rules we understood and respected. We weren’t allowed to be together in the same room until we were married. Still, every day, he would come to my room, hold my tummy, and reassure me that we would be okay. We started building dreams quietly. He promised he would work hard, save money, and by January of 2008 he would get even a small place of our own. He promised he would bring me to Europe one day. He promised we would have a happy life together.

Before our wedding day, he asked me to pray with him. Not out of fear, and not because anyone forced us but because he wanted to do what was right. We prayed together and asked God for forgiveness, knowing we were young and that we had made mistakes. He wanted to start our life not pretending we were perfect but being honest before God. And when we got married in May 2007, he stood before our church and apologized publicly. As Christians, we felt it mattered. Not to be shamed, but to be accountable. That moment said everything about the kind of man he was. Humble, sincere, and deeply grounded in faith. He didn’t hide. He took responsibility. He wanted our marriage to begin with truth.

In those two years that we were together as boyfriend and girlfriend, and later as husband and wife, we never fought. Not even once. When I wasn’t in the mood, he knew exactly how to make me laugh. He didn’t know how to be angry. He was steady in a way that made everything feel lighter.

Our son was born in July of the same year. Caring for our baby together was both exhausting and effortless. He was a loving partner and a devoted father. After I gave birth, I struggled to recover. I relied too much on my abdominal binder, and when I took it off, I couldn’t feel my feet so I couldn’t walk without it. He carried me. He bathed me. He washed me. He took care of me without complaint, and I could feel that he loved doing it. I still remember him looking at me and saying, “I’m so proud of you.”

Months later, he came home from work not feeling well. He told me he thought he wouldn’t be able to make it home that day. I told him we should bring him to the hospital but he didn’t want to so I told him to rest and insisted he stay home the next day because he still wanted to go to work. That day, I took care of him. I checked on him constantly, but he didn’t improve. By the next morning, my father-in-law took him to the hospital, and he was not allowed to leave the hospital anymore. His heart had tripled in size. He was diagnosed with Marfan Syndrome, a rare congenital disease no one knew he had until that moment. No one in that hospital had ever operated on someone with his condition before. They were taking pictures of him like he was a case study so his parents and I eventually had to make a hard decision, we requested his transfer to the Philippine Heart Center, where one of the country’s best cardiothoracic surgeons is. When the doctor finally spoke to me, he asked what I wanted to do. He said without surgery, his heart would burst within two days. With surgery, his chance of survival, well he said just to give me something, it was five percent.

I took the five percent and prayed.

Before the surgery, as the nurse prepared him, he told the nurse we would all see each other after. He looked at our son’s photo and cried, telling me how much he missed him so I told him to get better, so we could go home together.

He went into surgery. He remained in a coma for a week. They tried to revive him in front of us, but he didn’t come back. That image stayed with me for a very long time.

He didn’t leave because he stopped loving us. He left because his body failed him.

Life continued, because it had to. And I learned how to survive again. But writing this now, I realize the truth that it still hurts. I wish I had been given more time with him. I wish our son had been given more time to know his father. I wish we had celebrated even one anniversary together.

I’ve only found peace believing that he is now with Jesus. Free from pain and free from a body that betrayed him. And sometimes, quietly, I hope that even with my messy life today, he would still be proud of me.

He didn't stay but I believe our love didn’t end.