When wife meets mistress

When Nena learned her husband was keeping a mistress, her gut reaction was "to destroy." She wanted to die or to kill or at least to maim (her husband and the other woman), but in time was able to keep hold of herself. She thought, on second thoughts, she could talk sense into the errant pair. At 35, she believed human kindness and reason could work wonders.
Here is an account of their first meeting – Nena and Leny, the wife and the mistress, respectively:
I dropped by Leny’s apartment just as she was on her way to school. Our meeting was a pleasant one, surprisingly. She remarked how good and young I looked. But of course, I took care to look my best – wore my most flattering blouse, suffered my girdle, had my hair blow-dried. I told her in turn she was everything my husband told me she was. Inwardly, I groaned – she looked so young, fragile, and innocent.
She told me she didn’t really have to go school that day. “Great,” I said. “Why don’t we drop by his office – and watch his jaw drop.
When we entered the office, holding hands and beaming, work ground to a halt. We must have made a grand show.
Yes, my husband's jaw dropped as we made our way to his cubicle. When he recovered his senses, he said: “Let’s go out to dinner.” We made plans for the three of us that night – noble, win-win plans. Silently, I congratulated myself. How clever I was!
If our lofty plans had materialized, Leny would study full time. I would be her guardian, mentor and friend. He would keep distance. When she finished and started a career, we would be the best of friends – all three of us.
Two months later, Leny was pregnant by my husband.


Monica tried a similar approach.She arranged to meet Eva, her husband Ding’s officemate and paramour.
Eva turned out to be really nice. She promised to forget Ding. And she also asked me to bring her home so she could meet “Ding’s children … so I can stand firm on my decision to break up with him." Taking a crowded bus, we were hanging by the estribo all the way. When we alighted, Eva said: “You could have pushed me from the bus, you know.”
Surprisingly, Eva was as as good as her word. Maybe it also helped that she was fired out from the office where she and Ding worked. Ding grieved Eva’s loss but Monica’s ordeal was far from over. It wasn’t long before Ding found another lover.


Not all wives can manage their dark impulses when meeting their husband’s mistresses for the first time. Carla is one of the feisty, uncontrolled ones.
Carla happens to be Nena’s sister, fiercely loyal to each other, but poles apart in temperament.
When Carla got wind of what was happening, she did some research to confirm her fears. Once she was certain something was afoul, she followed her husband Ben as she drove supposedly to overtime work. She left herown car behind and instead took a cab so Ben wouldn't notice he was being tailed.
But inside Carla’s bag was a gun, Ben’s gun.
He parked by a narrow alley in a semi-depressed part of Manila, went out of the car, and walked. I paid the cab, and watched him enter a small yard where a petite young woman waited. I was in turmoil … I must have entered the yard too and walked past him. All I remember is holding the woman by the collar and pointing Ben’s gun at her temple ...


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Sa panahon ng MO/MU, uso pa ba 'I love you?'

Ligaw tingin. Pero tinging makalaglag-matsing.

Yan daw ang ginagawa niyang pagpaparamdam sa babaeng napupusuan – sabi ng anak kong binata. Ayaw niyang aminin na torpe siya. Yan lang daw ang istayl niya.

'Tapos?’ -- tanong ko.

'Tapos, depende sa kontra-tingin -- alam ko na ang timpla,’ sabi niyang alanganin ang ngiti.

Paano ba binababasa o linalasa ang tingin ng dalaga?

Eto ang paliwanag niya.

Pag ang balik tingin ay wala lang, dedma, burahin mo na lang siya sa iyong alaala Pag galit at inis, lumayo-layo ka na. At pag bumulalas pa ng tawa, sampalin mo ang sarili mo o magpakain ka na lang sa buwaya.

Pero pag ang tingin sa iyo ng dalaga ay tila nagtatanong sabay kiling ng leeg, oy, may pagasa. Pag may ngiting pigil o manibalang, at lalo na kung mamumula pa ang pisngi niya – aba, wagi ka! Pag iwas-tingin naman siya, na tila nahihiya, malamang din may biyaya.

‘Tapos, pag natimpla na?’

‘Eh di magpapalitan na kami ng phone number. Magtatawagan. Magyayayaan nang kumain, manuod ng sine, mamasyal. ‘Yun.’

‘Kayo na?’

‘Kami na.’

Pag ‘sila na,’ aasahan ko nang may bago na namang dalaga siyang laging dadalhin sa bahay – laging maganda, laging palangiti, at karinyosa. Minsan, nagtururuan sila ng chess. Minsan naman naglalaro sila ng computer games. Kadalasan, nanunood sila ng TV – DVD marathon ang tawag nila. Kapag masyadong gabi na, ‘makikitulog na lang daw kung maari.’ Siempre, sa kuwarto ng binata ko hihiga ang bisita; siya naman sa sopa sa sala. Sos, ‘yan ang problema. Scrabble na namang magdamag si Nanay sa kompyuter sa sala!

Wala daw akong tiwala sa kanila, bulong-bulong ng anak ko. Hindi ko lang masabi -- may tiwala naman ako sa kabataan; sa hormones nila, wala.

Minsan, ang anak ko naman ang hindi uuwi at makikitulog sa bahay ng nobya. Hindi ko na pinag-aaksayahan ng buntong-hininga iyan. Matutulog na lang ako nang mahimbing. Hindi ko na problema ‘yun. Problema na ‘yun ng nanay sa kabilang bahay.

Hindi ko na mabilang ang mga dalagang natulog sa bahay. Papalit-palit kasi ng nobya ang binatang ngayon ay malapit nang maging matandang binata.

Hayskul siya nang matutong manligaw.

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DECLASSIFYING DASTARDLY SECRETS

We were lingering over dinner at Kalye ni Juan -- my certified platinum amigas and I -- when we got to talking about terra incognita. We agreed that though we go back many years and trust each other more than anyone else in the world, there are still things we keep from each other. Indiscretions. Intimate secrets. Deep, dark, dastardly episodes of our lives.

May these be now declassified? -- we wondered.

"Well, I plagiarized when I was in high school,” I began, feeling absolutely bold and wicked.

This opened a flurry of cutesy confessions.

“ I read my daughters’ diaries.”

"I sent Valentine's Day flowers to myself."

“I hid chocolate from my children.”

“I used to pad the family expense account.”

Someone yawned out loud then heckled : “Are we all so dull? Can't we talk of more exciting stuff?”

Such as what?

Such as – amidst giggles – did any one of us have a face lift or a nose job or a lipo?

Lipo? Uhmmm – an amply endowed amiga demurred – maybe this year maybe next year or just as soon as the clinics guarantee the bulges would stay deflated forever. Face lift? No, never, we chorused. Too invasive. Too much down time. Too hard to disclaim. Too expensive. Husbands will not allow it or will never stop throwing it to our -- uh oh-- faces when we complain about money. Children will tease and laugh. Children-in-law may gossip. And nose jobs? What for?! -- was the consensus, as each lifted her own proboscis a bit higher, regardless button-cute or just short of Grecian.

The only coy admissions that part of the session produced were to an eye job (by two amigas) and to re-landscaping in that region where babies pop out from (by almost all).

“Those are still so lame and tame,” the heckler complained again. “Don’t we have stuff rated X or R?”

“What about ... did we love someone we shouldn’t have?” Emma volunteered primly. Did I just imagine she blushed?

“Oh, you mean did anyone of us ever have an affair?” Lyn shot back as the heckler sat back with a smile that said "now we're talking."

We looked at each other, half expectant, half afraid of what we might be about to hear and not knowing how to deal with it.

No one should have worried. Nothing scary was forthcoming.

Jane broke the silence by persisting: “Such as what else?”

“Such as getting rid of someone we shouldn’t have?" -- this from me.

“Like an old flame?” Emma asked.

"A lover?"

"Or a baby?"

"No way!"

When do we take old skeletons out of cupboards? -- we speculated before we stood up to go home, none of us the wiser. Will there come a time they wouldn't shock nor embarass anymore? When we get to 65? 75? At our deathbeds?

When we have forgiven ourselves?

Maybe never.

APPROPRIATING PAIN

I caught my friend Doris crying silently in her cubicle. Although she doesn’t say anything, I know its again that good-for-nothing whom she calls “my everything.”

When your sister or friend hurts badly -- physically or emotionally -- and you feel so helpless, what do you do?

You make your shoulder a little broader for crying on.

You want to say "You nitwit you. Why should you let that SOB hurt you.” Or: "You think you love him but you don't, can't. " But you don't. You don't deny her her feelings.

You want to tell her about your kumare or kapitbahay who suffered bigger than she does, but who was able to cope. But you don't. You don't say "wala lang yang problema mo compared to so-and-so." Nope, you avoid belittling her troubles.

You just listen, make those cooing little noises, try to rephrase her pain, turn it every which way, and hope she talks some of the hurt away. Talking -- like writing -- can be cathartic, you know. You listen -- even if you can almost lip-sync what she's saying. And then you listen again. You take the phone even if it’s 2 a.m.

The cliché way is to pray for the hurting friend. Maybe it is unfair to call prayer that word. I am sorry if I offend others by the narrowness or recklessness of my vocabulary. But it’s too easy to say “I will pray.” It is even easy to do, too. I can pray by rote; I can compose a prayer – as I sometimes do –and say it over and over again until the repetition erodes it of meaning. And my own experience is that prayer does not always produce immediate results but has to patiently wait for “God’s own time.”

There must be more than listening and praying.

Can you – uhmm -- appropriate for yourself some of that pain? Can you carry around a piece of it to relieve someone of his or her load?

I have this lame-brain theory that pain is a universal pie that can be cut up and distributed thinly. And that if you get a slice bigger than your quota, you leave the other person with a smaller and lighter piece to carry around.

But I am just full of hot air, you know. Big deal, big talk.

For … what are the mechanics of appropriating pain for oneself?

How does the hot air translate into action?

I don’t know.

Another’s pain can never really reach me – except in an abstract way. The only way for that pain to touch me is for something to happen in my personal life that will cut and bleed me.

Then and only then will my talk turn into walk.

But I wouldn’t want that, would I? I am not as numb as I might tout myself to be. And if I have really desensitized myself, what pain would I be talking about?

No, there should be a better way. But I don’t know it yet.

Can it be to spread more kindness to the world?

Can it be to fix one’s own unmended fences – no more pretending the damage is not there, but rather pick up the pieces and hammer away.

Can it be to forgive those you are most hard pressed to forgive?

How will that help Doris who is hurting badly?

It is hard to say. I am not blind to the gaping fallacies of my reasoning. My brain is shot full of holes. Still, I rest my case on that fragile ground.

I just know, sure as the sun sets and rises, that people’s fates -- friends’ especially -- are inextricably connected.

(Ano daw?)

(To my friend, D)
Yesterday we cried, stung by life
That promised, gave, then smashed away.
The broken shards lie in the sun
Shimmering, a river of tears.

We swam, my friend, we swam
We swam for our lives.
Our eyes dried with every stroke
As we glimpsed the shore.

Yesterday we cried
But yesterday's far and gone.
We're safe, we're free -- we've always been.
We've forgotten why we cried.

My Alter Life as Fertility Goddess

I should have seen it coming when my doctor diagnosed a myoma somewhere inside me where babies come from. It was an itty bitty growth that would soon grow up, I was warned. Rather harmless, except it was obstructive of motherly ambitions.

"Go and multiply now and I mean NOW-- or forever remain two," the OB-gyn as much as told husband and me.

That was countless years and countless babies ago. The duo has not only become a trio but a glee club that is not always in tune.

Myohmy! Whereohwhere has my little myoma gone ? That's a question which I’d have wanted to confront Dr. Young with, for all her U.S. training credentials (not from some Philippine med school, ha? hahaha!).

If it’s still inside me, it must have grown into an amulet. A fertility charm.

And that is how I have become goddess of fertility, with childless women worshipping at my altar.

Mary and Waiping did. They are two Singaporean women I met in an international program in KL some time in my prolific past.

They had no children yet, though each four and five years married, they told me during our getting-to-know you lunch. Their woebegone look gave away the yearning in their heart.

Their eyes popped when I told them how many I got or begot.

“If you want to have children, stick by me,” I declared, “I'm a fertility deity."

I am not sure if they believed me. But stick by me they did -- all through the one-month program. They’d flank me in class pictures. Hustle to get into my group during field work. Knock on my door to chat.

Waiping and I met again in Singapore three years later. The conference I was attending was held at the National Productivity Board where she and Mary worked.

I was delighted to meet again a very big, very pregnant Waiping. It’s her second baby she said. It was then I noticed she still looked woebegone and -- did I only imagine it? -- wary.

“And where’s Mary,” I asked.

“She’s on maternity leave. Her second, too."

Before I could react, she added: "I don’t think she wants to see you.”

A Beleaguered Dad

A friend recently confided about his family life.

His family is falling to pieces, he says.

He fights with his wife over the littlest things. “She knows which button to press to trigger my anger,” he cries. She demands, she nags, she controls – all because of jealousy.

It is bad enough that he was at loggerheads with her. But that his children have become distant, almost hostile was something he could not take.

He loves his kids to death, he says. They are the reason he works “my ass off” at a full-time job and double consultancies. So he can send them to the best schools, buy them their hearts’ desire, take them out to fun places.

He thought it wasn’t fair all of them were taking their Mom’s side.

I responded with sympathetic little noises until I remembered something I read about dads which I repeated to him: “The best thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”

The question “Do you?” hung in the air.

My friend turned purple and couldn’t speak for a minute. Then he excused himself and left my room.

Love, romantic love, is often a “novelty” that passes.

People decide to marry to spend more time together. But they find soon enough that things come between them . They are separated by the morning coffee, the evening news on TV, the sometimes problematic children. By dirty plates piling in the sink. By utility, insurance, and credit card bills.

So couples fall out of love eventually. But it is at this point that they can truly love. A love that’s no longer a feeling (a helpless one) but a decision (a willful one).

Husband and wife choose to love, even when the loving feeling has run out, for many good reasons. It is the right thing to do. It is the mature, the courageous thing to do.

And it is the best thing they can do for their children.

(first published in Pinoy Moms Network and expanded for this blogsite.)

Women in Love and in Trouble 2: THE APPLE OF MY EYE

by Lilian (as told to Annamanila)

When we meet the person for whom we are intended, recognition comes through the fact that we fall in love ... we think we will then be able to satisfy all of each other's needs forever and ever .. and therefore live happily forever after. Should it come to pass, however, that we misread the stars .. nothing can be done about the situation except to live unhappily ever after or get divorced (or separated).

- Scott Peck

“When will you set me free?”

Twelve years after my family pushed me into marrying Ding, he was begging me to release him. “I married you against my will,” he said, avoiding my eyes. He was telling me he wanted out of our marriage. Out of my life.

Out of my life, he said.

I called him the “apple of my eye.” But it was an understatement. He was my whole life for many years. So, how could my life get out of my life? Wouldn’t that leave me with nothing?

“I’d rather die,” I thought. Aloud, I said: “You can never leave me. Wherever you go, I will find you.”

How did he stray – the sweet apple of my eye?

My best friend

He was my best friend – the only one in the whole world who understood me … my quirks, my moods, my silences. When I was 18, I had a nervous breakdown. I lived in a fog for weeks. The only person who could break through me was Ding. He defied my parents in order to reach out to me. That was the time I started calling him the “apple of my eye.”

Not so dark, not so tall, not so handsome. He was quiet, gentle, not given to drinking nor smoking. But it seemed to me he was always around – like an angel.

He was so quiet that he only said “I love you” once – one Valentine’s Day, when we were courting. He never repeated it. It did not bother me that he did not. I married, after all, a man of few words.

My parents thought we eloped. But that was not quite true. When I ran away after a bitter scolding from my father, also on account of Ding, it was not he whom I sought out. I went to a friend’s boarding house to let off steam. Ding followed me there. In fact, he implored me to go home. But when I would not, he kept me company. He stayed on, although I urged him to leave when night fell. “I will not leave you,” Ding insisted. He stayed with me, until I went home two days after.

My father could not believe that “nothing happened” during the two days I was away. A medical examination would have confirmed our blamelessness. But my parents would not hear of consulting a doctor. Certain were they that “my honor” and that of the family had been blemished. We were married at civil ceremonies a few months later, when his mother came home from her contract work in Singapore. We were both 19.

This is what Ding meant when he said “… napilitan lang siya.”

No expectations

I did not have any illusions about marriage. No big expectations from my husband. All the years we were together, we lived either in my parents’ or my in-laws’ house. We occupied a room in either house. Both small, cramped, lacking in privacy. At the beginning, we – as well as our children – were fed, clothed, sheltered by our elders. Our basic needs were taken care of. So, it did not occur to me to ask anything from Ding, even if he had a job every so often. I would take whatever little he gave but never asked for more. I never knew how much his monthly pay was. I never asked.

Come to think of it, I was never really a housewife. I never learned how to cook, go to market, beautify my home, make housewifely decisions.

And come to think of it, in 13 years, Ding and I never went out together – except in rare outings with the children. We never celebrated a birthday, a Valentine’s Day, or an anniversary. He never gave me a gift though I’d save for a new pair of Nike shoes for him every Christmas. He was also a distant father. And yet, in my heart of hearts, he remained to be the apple of my eye.

Love may be all you can give, but honey, I can't live without it.

- Barbra Streissand in "More Than You Know"

I’m not what you might call sweet and gentle. At work people called me the “taray princess.” At home, even my accomplished Ate who was used to bossing us around, could not make me toe the line. I was careful to let people know that in spite of my petite exterior, I was no pushover. But I was putty in Ding’s hands. He was, after all, the apple of my eye.

I finished my secretarial course in-between pregnancies. In time, I too began to earn. My mother-in-law set me up for a sari-sari store business. I liked being busy. Later, I found an office job.

Perhaps Ding never loved me. For he began looking for other women to love soon after we got wed.

He had a string of girlfriends in his office. I would find pictures of office parties with some giddy-looking girl seated beside him. He would take home video tapes of office socials to watch over and over. She and the giddy-looking girl were inseparable even in film.

I took refuge in my job, raising my children, and studying. With such busy routine, there was little we saw of each other. In the early morning, we’d have a few minutes of breakfast together. At night, when I came home from school, he’d either be asleep or out. Either way, I’d also be too beat to talk with or wait up for him.

When I was just beginning my job, Ding took seriously ill. He had coronary thrombosis that confined him to the Heart Center for almost a month. He almost died then. His heart stopped; it took a respirator to revive him. Although I was afraid of the prognosis, part of me was happy to have him all to myself to take care of.

During his confinement, the hospital was my home. I slept there, ate there, had a change of clothes there. Luckily, my office at Balara was just minutes away from the hospital.

When Ding was released, a blood clot still remained in his right eye. It took years for the blood to disperse. And even when the clot was gone, Ding was still prone to severe headaches. When the attacks came, they were so bad he wanted to hit his head on the wall. I’d apply cold compress, massage his pain away, pray over him.

I felt most like Ding’s wife when he was afflicted.

Eva

Didn’t I tell you about Ding’s string of girl friends? There were so many I couldn’t any more distinguish one from the other. But there were two whom I’ll never forget.

Eva was a girl from his office. She’s small, cute, brown, sexy. Well, to make a long story short, I was able to track down Eva and she turned out to be real nice as well. She promised to forget Ding. And she also asked me to bring her home “… so I can see Ding’s children. So I can prop up my decision to break up with him.”

Taking a crowded bus, we were hanging by the estribo all the way. When we alighted, Eva remarked: “You could have pushed me from the bus, you know.”

- to be concluded

PMN, the ezine

Something's happened to the Pinoy Moms Network and its awesome!

It has been reborn as an online magazine!

Born this Monday, July 9 at exactly 00.00 o'clock. Brainchild of two Greek, I mean Geek, goddesses Connie Veneracion and Noemi Dado. At hand during birthing were cheer-leading moms Dine Racoma, Dexie Wharton and Annamanila (the first three who came forward to be section eds). Attending too were countless other PMN member-moms who kept vigil as baby was delivered -- with just a reasonable amount of labor pains -- beautiful, bouncy, bubbly, if itty-bitty bug-sy.

When the first welcome greetings for the newborn poured in, all Connie could say was:

"My knees are shaking ...... my hands are sweaty .... I can't believe this has finally happened ... thank you thank you ... if this is a dream, i don't want to wake up."

Excerpts from Connie's maiden editorial give clues the refurbished PMN, like Rome, wasn't built in a day ...

" ... Can’t even begin to tell you how much blood, sweat and tears went into the transformation of PMN. From an aggregator of the latest members’ blogs, we now have original articles — all in line with the vision of turning PMN into an e-zine and a useful and entertaining resource for mothers of whatever size, shape, race and faith. "

Don't take her, our word for it ... log in to the new PMN, the e-zine ... if you haven't yet.

NENA'S STORY - CONCLUSION (Women in Love and in Trouble)

(as told to Anna Manila)

Dancing with the enemy

One of my first reactions was to dance with the enemy. At 35, I was an incurable romantic who believed that love and kindness conquered all.

One afternoon, I met Leny for the first time.

I dropped by her apartment just as she was on her way to school. Our meeting was a pleasant one, surprisingly. She remarked how good and young I looked. But of course, I took care to look my best -- wore my most flattering blouse, suffered my girdle, had my hair blow-dried. I told her in turn she was everything my husband told me she was. Inwardly, I groaned -- she looked so young, fragile, and innocent.

She told me she didn't really have to go to school that day. "Great," I said. "Why don't we drop by his office -- the two of us together -- and watch his jaw drop?"

We must have made a grand show. When we entered the office, holding hands and beaming, work ground to a halt.

Yes, his jaw dropped as we made our way to his cubicle. When he recovered his senses, he said: "Let's go out to dinner."

We made plans for the three of us that night -- noble, win-win plans. Silently, I congratulated myself. How clever I was, I thought.

If our lofty plans had materialized, Leny would have studied full time. I would have been her guardian, mentor, and friend, who'd keep an eagle eye on her. He would have kept distance. When she would have graduated and started a career, we would be the best of friends -- all three of us. In my mind, I added, she would have met a man who'd marry her, give her his name, and keep her out of arm's way -- my husband's arms.

It was an exhilarating dinner. All three of us glowed with good will towards all and malice towards none. The Chinese food was great. I feasted on a banquet of hope.

Two months later, Leny was pregnant.

The night I learned about it was the night I threw myself on a busy street, wanting to kill the pain.

Plunging into war

Looking back, I realized that the "best of plans" are easier made than done. The spirit acknowledges what is good and right, but the body does its own thing. In short, he couldn't keep distance. She couldn't either. Neither of them could stay away from the forbidden fruit -- a fruit I was making infinitely sweeter for them.

Then I plunged into war. No holds barred. All systems go. Exit Ms. Goody-two-shoes. Enter a woman-dragon spitting fire. I brought forth all the wilinesses and foolishnesses I didn't know I was capable of.

Of course, an affair that has broken out into the open escalates inevitably into a psy-war. A battle of one-up(wo)manship. A crossfire of the vanities.

In the eyes of the betrayed wife, the errant pair looms larger than life, while the rest of the world recedes to the background. Home, children, work, profession, friends -- they no longer count except as support systems to help annihilate the enemy.

I monitored my husband as though my life depended on knowing where he was and who he was with at any time of the day. The telephone was a instrument of torture and relief. I died a little when I learned he was out. I breathed easy when he was in. I made him promise to go home before seven -- his hands on the bible. (Of course, he didn't.) I invented every excuse to drop by his office at 5:00 p.m. or thereabouts so we could go home together. I went to St. Jude every Thursday, Quiapo every Friday, and invented every conceivable meeting and seminar during the week -- all incidentally very near his office.

I monitored his personal effects. Kept count of his shirts and underwear. Checked that his wedding ring was in place when he went out to work and checked again when he got back. Demanded love every night -- drained him out of his loving energies so there would be nothing left for nobody. Sniffed him inside and out after late nights for unexplained scents. Made sure our wedding picture was always in his wallet. For good measure, I scrawled a note at the back of the photo: 'HEY YOU THIEF. ARE YOU SO UNATTRACTIVE YOU COULDN'T FIND YOUR OWN MAN?" Sure enough, the note hit bullseye, drew tears, and sparked a major tiff.

Pendulum

With my husband, I blew hot and cold. Sometimes, I came to him with hammer and tongs. Threatened to leave him, have my own boyfriend, take the children away. Other times, I tried to "kill" him with all the sweetness and softness I could muster. Cooked his favorite food, massaged him to sleep, served him hand on foot.

At work, I couldn't function thinking of the two of them. They were with me in my waking hours, in my sleep, and sleeplessness. The nights of waiting for him to come home were most harrowing. I learned to take small doses of tranquilizers. Once, when I ran out of the merciful pills, I turned to drink.

My emotions were a pendulum. I swung from heights of hope (when he's with me) to depths of despair (when he was with her). At my most desperate, I wished him dead. I relished the idea of a mild catastrophe falling on him -- maybe a crippling of his legs, or a moderate stroke or heart attack -- anything, just to keep him home for maybe a few months, a year. In the meantime the interloper would lose hope and disappear.

My children -- how they suffered (as I found out later). But I was oblivious to them. It was a wonder they didn't grow up wayward or maladjusted.

I left home a number of times, always on a bluff. Invariably, I came back when fetched.

Holidays were nightmares. Mistresses had to have a Christmas, too, you know -- and a New Year as well. That dark excruciating year, Leny's Christmas was December 23, her New Year, January 2. I bought him his gift for her, wrote the greeting on the gift tag. I sent her pastries, suman, and fruits from my pantry. I made sure she understood she was celebrating Christmas only at my sufferance. I slept through their celebrations. Nothing to it -- just two pills.

By the time Leny gave birth, I was two months pregnant with my fourth baby.

Crisis helped. His business closed that year. He was hard pressed keeping up with apartment rentals. Soon, it had to go. They began fighting over money, his dwindling visits, the sickly baby. With my stable bank job, I helped with the milk and the diapers, not so much out of the goodness of my heart as my desire to smell like roses. And I did. The tables were turned. I became the comforter, she the afflicter.

In less than two months, Leny and her baby were kicked out from the apartment. They had no place to go but back to her family. They still met after that -- intermittently. I began to relax -- it was just a matter of time. I dropped by Leny and the baby one last time. We hugged and forgave each other.

Within a year, Leny was recruited abroad as an entertainer. In time, she married a foreigner, who later on adopted her child. Later on they divorced. But to my best knowledge, Leny and son are still abroad.

Paying the price

I won the war, didn't I? I was certain then that I did. Now, I am no longer sure.

You see, just as I thought we were settling back to our old placid life, it happened again. Another woman. Another set of circumstances. Another cycle of pain. I guess I'll spare you the details.

You might say I won that round again. For look, my husband is still with me.

Everything has its price. I paid dearly for my victories. I stopped caring -- simply, totally. Today, my husband and I are physically together but emotionally apart.

Sad! -- a friend said, her eyes misting when I told her. Maybe. But in a way, I am more at peace now with myself than I've ever been. I suppose when you have stopped expecting or wanting, you are no longer vulnerable.

I guess I like myself better now than 20 years ago. I am a more focused mother, a more efficient worker, and a less selfish human being all around. Even my children think so.

The experience taught me to redefine my life. I guess I woke up one day from all the brooding and the hurting and decided that there must be a better way to live. A merciful God couldn't' have meant this gift-life to be so difficult, could he? Otherwise, what kind of God would He be? It was a turning point.

All I want now is to exorcise leftover resentments. To be able to look my husband in the eye and feel more understanding than rancor. Never mind passion. I can live without it. This hopeless romantic is cured at last.

- End -

Women in Love and in Trouble: Nena's Story (Part 1)

When we have told our stories, we can leave it behind. When we have sounded off our tale of brokenness, the wholeness remains.

Six women entrusted me with their stories of loving, hurting, coping, and healing (for an aborted book project).

Their narratives are saying that the downside to love is heartbreak but that mending is possible.

This is one of them.

NENA'S STORY (AS TOLD TO ANNAMANILA)

The woman ran across busy Ramon Magsaysay Boulevard and midway flung herself face down. Motor lights blinded her even as she shut tight tear-drenched eyes. She braced herself on the hard pavement as tires screeched, horns blared, and drivers cursed. After what seemed like forever, she felt herself being picked up. "I'll take you home now," a voice whispered in her ear.

The anger in the man's voice cut through her fog-filled mind. It made her flinch in spite of her confusion.

Did the woman really want to kill herself?Twenty years later, I am still asking myself that question. Did I want to kill myself then? You see, I am that woman. Or more accurately, I was that woman. If you ask me now, there's very little in that wretched, frightened 35-year-old woman that I -- now 55 going on 70 -- want to identify with.

My world was placid after marrying a man who I used to think was "to good to be true." Those were the incredible days I held up three fingers when asked about problems: getting and keeping household help, keeping away from a fourth pregnancy after 12 years and three children, and getting to sleep whenever my husband had late nights out with his barkada. In that order. I thought myself one heck of a lucky girl.

It was a Friday in June, the eve of a three-day weekend, when my placid world collapsed.A group of friends was seeing a seer-psychic-healer after work. It sounded like fun to me. Luchie was embroiled in searing office politics and needed advice on how to get out of it. Betty lost cash and checks in her desk drawer, called it an inside job, and wanted to confirm her hunch. Ces wished to know if she could travel again after a study visit to Japan. "It wouldn't hurt to ask if a marriage proposal is in the offing," Betty teased the still-single Ces. While I, the coolest of them all, declared I'd tag along "only to observe, to be the cheering squad." At the back of my mind, I told myself that if the psychic was half as good as he was vaunted to be, I'd ask him about relief for my acutely asthmatic baby.

During the visit, the psychic obliged each of us with a palm-reading session. When my turn came, he told me: "Hija, your friends think they have a problem. They don't -- not really. You do."

I laughed nervously and asked him to tell me more.He faltered just so and then went on. "There's a possibility it would pass. A fling, I hope. Except that you and your husband have the same zodiac signs, the same temperament. You are likely to clash head on." The seer didn't meet my eyes as he spoke.

"You're telling me my husband is having an affair?" -- I shot back.

"Well, hija, it might not be serious yet. But if you're not careful, if you don't keep your cool, your marriage might break up."

When I arrived home, I was still laughing and shaking my head. Psychics were carnival stuff to me. Still, I couldn't wait to tell my husband about it and perhaps have a good laugh together over it.

As it turned out, I was in for a long wait. He was out again with the boys. With the boys? -- my mind started to paint lewd boy-girl pictures. As the night progressed, the pictures turned lewder by the minute.

By the time he turned in at 3:00 in the morning, I was fit to be tied.

I blurted out the four sentences I had rehearsed for hours: "Papa, I know you are having an affair. I have air-tight evidence. So don't try to deny it. If you do, I'll leave you anyway."

He didn't try to deny it. He spilled it out. Every sordid and excruciating detail of it.

It wasn't a fling. It was serious. Leny was 18 and a student. They met at work -- she was employed part time in his business as promo girl. They dated, at first as a foursome. Then she told him on the phone that she felt something was happening and wondered if he felt it too. He said he did. Then they made it happen. She wasn't a virgin. (An ex-boyfriend forced himself on her, the beast!) After a few more dates -- no longer in a foursome -- she left home. He found her an apartment.

Yes, she is attractive and young and has great boobs. No, it isn't just lust. But no, it isn't love either. Yes, yes, I love you more. No, I'll never leave you and our children. But no, no, I can't leave her either -- just like that. You have to give me time. I don't want to break her heart. Soon, soon, but not now.

Why -- I asked. Why did it happen. How did I go wrong?

He hemmed and hawed and rambled. As best as I could make it, he blamed his business -- the economy was bad; the market was shrinking. When he was with me, the problems scared him. When he was with her, these problems receded: she was an outsider, thus a haven. So you see, it was not you, he said, it was the circumstances.

More ramblings. He didn't plan it to happen. He was just out to have fun.

Eventually, he turned on me just the same. I had transformed from sweet, giving girlfriend to brusque, grasping wife. I took, demanded, pressured, nagged. It was me after all.

Neither of us got any sleep that day. He was supposed to go to the office that Saturday. But I prevailed on him to stay home. He continued to stay home Sunday -- bah, Sunday was family day. Monday was a holiday -- hallelujah! -- and he didn't have to go out either; not that I would let him. I could see in my mind's eye the other one anxious, fuming, and best of all, beginning to be afraid. Oh God, I wanted her to be afraid -- as afraid as I was.

After that long weekend, I made him wear a bowling shirt with my name plus an apostrophe and an "S" -- NENA's -- emblazoned on the back. It was a shirt I ordered a year before but never got him to wear. That day I took it out of the closet, he put it on without fuss. And that was my first cheap shot at that faceless third party out there who took away something that was mine.

When he came home that night -- no longer as late as in previous nights -- he said that Leny immediately guessed what happened. One look at the possessive label on his shirt told her that the lid was off. She wasn't dumb after all.

Read the conclusion by clicking on the label/category "love and marriage" (left bar, please)