I came home to find the yaya wearing silk—her long, smooth legs catching the light—and in that moment, I lost myself completely.
It was nearly eleven at night when I stepped out of the taxi in Quezon City, the sharp scent of alcohol clinging to every breath. The evening had gone perfectly: clients impressed, deals hinted at, my confidence buoyed by success. I felt untouchable.
Yet beneath that satisfaction stirred a desire I had hidden for far too long behind a respectable face.
Her name was Liza.
She was our new kasambahay—barely twenty, fresh from the province—hired by my wife just two months earlier. Youth clung to her effortlessly, like morning dew. Even in a simple daster, her figure was impossible to ignore. More than once, I’d caught myself watching too long, swallowing hard before forcing my eyes away.
My wife, Ana, was different now. Two pregnancies had reshaped her body. Sleepless nights had darkened her skin, softened her edges. Her world revolved around the children, the kitchen, the quiet labor of holding a family together.
The monotony of married life—paired with temptation living under the same roof—had pushed me closer to crossing a line than I ever cared to admit.
The house was dark when I entered. Only the kitchen light glowed faintly.
I was about to head upstairs when I froze.
By the minibar, bathed in yellow light, stood a woman with her back to me, pouring water.
She wasn’t wearing the usual house clothes.
She wore a red silk nightgown.
My breath caught.
I recognized it instantly—the dress I’d bought Ana years ago for our anniversary, the one she never wore because it was “too revealing.”
And those legs…
The fabric fell short, revealing long, pale legs that glowed softly. Her black hair was neatly tied back.
That posture. That youth.
It wasn’t Ana.
“Liza,” her name flashed through my mind.
The alcohol did the rest. A story formed instantly—perhaps she had noticed my glances, my silence. Perhaps she’d waited until my wife slept, slipped into the dress, and sent a signal.
Reason vanished. I forgot about the woman upstairs. I forgot who I was supposed to be.
I moved closer.
She didn’t turn around.
When I was near enough, restraint disappeared. I wrapped my arms around her slender waist from behind.
She gasped softly, her body trembling—but she didn’t pull away.
I took it as confirmation.
“You’re pretending,” I whispered, my breath heavy with wine. “Wearing this just to sleep? Don’t worry… I’ll take care of you.”
She stayed silent.
I lifted her and carried her into the guest room, laying her gently on the bed. In the darkness, my confidence swelled. I kissed her, felt the warmth of her body.
“You smell so familiar,” I murmured.
My hand slid beneath the silk, searching for youthful skin—
And I froze.
Beneath my palm was not smooth firmness, but a long, familiar scar. Soft flesh marked by stretch lines no cream could erase.
My heart stopped.
A cesarean scar.
Miguel’s birth. Then the second. The same marks I had seen countless times—and chosen to forget.
“Oh God…”
I jerked my hand back as if burned. The haze vanished instantly.
The light snapped on.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
When I opened them—
It wasn’t Liza.
It was Ana.
My wife knelt on the bed, staring at the ceiling, tears sliding silently down her temples. She didn’t scream. She didn’t rage.
“Why did you stop?” she asked quietly, her voice thin as glass.
“Were you looking for the yaya? I’m sorry… this is all I have. Scars.”
I collapsed to the floor.
“Ana… I—how—”
“That afternoon,” she said calmly, “I saw the way you looked at her. I sent Liza to her aunt’s for three days.”
A bitter laugh escaped her.
“I wore the dress you bought me five years ago. Turned off the lights. I waited.”
Her eyes met mine at last.
“I hoped you’d recognize your wife. Or at least ask who I was. But you didn’t. You said her name.”
She smiled—a smile made of pain.
“In your eyes, I’m already old. And these scars—the ones I earned giving you children—are what killed your desire, right?”
“No,” I pleaded. “I was drunk—”
She pulled away.
She stood, retrieved a folder from the dresser, and dropped it at my feet.
Divorce papers. Signed.
“It wasn’t the alcohol,” she said softly. “It only revealed the truth. You wanted the skin of a twenty-year-old. What you touched was the sacrifice of a wife.”
She looked at my trembling hands.
“That moment you froze hurt me more than any slap ever could.”
“Sign it,” she said. “You’re free now.”
She walked out, leaving the room hollow and cold.
I stared at the papers. Then at my hands—the hands that had destroyed everything.
The scar burned in my memory.
It wasn’t ugly.
It was a mother’s medal.
I sat there until morning, knowing the truth at last:
Our family ended the moment desire blinded me to what lay beneath the silk.
Youth fades.
Lust passes.
But sacrifice, once betrayed, is gone forever.
Sometimes, one careless touch is enough to ruin an entire life.