“When I went to my ex-wife’s house after five years of divorce, I was shocked to see the photo hanging on the wall. I did something immoral…”
Yesterday it was raining heavily.
On my way back from work in Quezon City, I saw my ex-wife waiting for the bus under the overhang of a bus stop. The torrential rain was making her tremble, and her hands were clutching her small purse tightly to her chest.

At that moment, I felt a faint ache in my heart. Although it had been five years since our divorce, her face was still so familiar 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 mild surprise, then she nodded with a weak smile and got into the car.

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

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

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

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

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

I loved her as always, and my mother, compassionate, even suggested:
“If you truly 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 she came home from work, she left the divorce papers in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t give you a complete family. Let me go, and find your happiness.”

I begged her, 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 work, trying to fill the emptiness in my heart.
Five years later, I had a stable job in Manila, a small apartment, and a life everyone considered “full and stable.”

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

When the car stopped in front of an old apartment complex in Pasig City, she 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 of wilted flowers, and an old bed.

But what stopped me in my tracks 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 long ago—and yet, after five years, I still had it, hanging in the most sacred place in that humble room.

I asked her 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.”

As we drove home, the rain was still falling heavily.
I drove in silence, my mind in turmoil.
The image of her sitting in that dark room, with the yellowed photo of our wedding hanging on the wall, haunted me every minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked again at the photo of our wedding.
Memories flooded back: the happy days, the hugs, the tears of our separation.

I couldn’t stop myself.
I moved forward, knocked on her

I stared at her face reflected in the photo, and then I stared at her for a long moment.
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 never to hurt her again.
But at that moment, my heart won over my reason.
I held her tightly.

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

The next morning, the rain had stopped.
She was still sleeping beside me, her face calm, her slender hands holding a corner of the blanket.

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

I knew I had made a mistake, but I also understood that 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’d 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.”

She 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 walk past the old apartment building and look up at the window where the small pot of flowers she planted still stands.

I never go inside; I just stand there, staring into the distance.
And amidst the bustle of Manila, I realize:
there are people who, even though they’re gone, will always hold a place in our hearts.