“To do what?”
“So he won’t grow up without a father.”
I looked straight at him.
“Then where were you when I was pregnant? When I was vomiting alone, going to checkups alone?”
Ethan lowered his head.
“I was wrong. I was weak.”
I turned my gaze back to my son.
Finally, I said,
“If you want to be his father… you have to prove it. Not with words.”
Ethan nodded, his eyes red.
“I will prove it.”
That night, he left.
But I knew—from the moment my child was born, the secret was over.
And a new chapter had begun.
Not the chapter of divorce.
But the chapter of a mother
and a father
learning how to take responsibility.
Ethan didn’t disappear after that night.
The next morning, he was there again—standing awkwardly by the ward door, holding a paper bag of food and a small bouquet of white sampaguita flowers. He didn’t come in right away. He waited until I nodded.
“I wasn’t sure what you like anymore,” he said softly, placing the bag on the table. “But the nurse said you haven’t eaten much.”
I didn’t reply, but I accepted the food.
That was how it started.
Not with apologies shouted too late.
Not with dramatic promises.
But with presence.