My name is Maria, twenty-six, born into poverty in the breezy countryside of Central Philippines. My father passed away when I was young, my mother was sickly, and I had to leave school in tenth grade to work and help support our family. After years of struggling, I landed a job as a housemaid for one of the wealthiest families in Quezon City—the Santos family.
Gabriel Santos, the only son, was everything a man could be—handsome, educated, calm—but distant, as if he carried a secret no one could touch. I had served that household for almost three years, quiet and respectful, never daring to imagine that I could be part of their world.
Then one afternoon, my employer called me to the living room. A marriage certificate lay on the table.
— “Maria,” she said, “if you marry Gabriel, this lakeside villa in Tagaytay will be yours. Consider it a wedding gift from our family.”
I was stunned. How could a poor maid like me even be considered? My mind screamed to refuse, but my mother’s illness and mounting medical bills weighed heavily. I nodded silently, knowing that my yes would save my family.
The wedding was more extravagant than any dream I had dared imagine. I wore white, sat beside Gabriel, and yet his eyes were distant, carrying a weight I could not pierce.
That night, in the rose-scented bedroom, the truth struck me like ice. Gabriel was not like other men—he had a congenital condition that made it impossible for him to fulfill the usual duties of a husband. Suddenly, everything made sense. The villa, the marriage arrangement—it was never about me. I had been chosen as a companion, a caretaker for appearances, someone who would not leave him despite his condition.
Tears fell freely, half for him, half for myself. Gabriel sat quietly beside me, his voice low:
— “I’m sorry, Maria. You didn’t deserve this. My mother needed me to have a wife by my side, but I can’t give you the life you deserve.”
In that warm golden light, I realized something—he, too, carried a wound. We were both victims of circumstance, bound together not by passion, but by fate.
Over the following days, our marriage unfolded quietly. There was no romantic fire, no passionate closeness—only companionship, respect, and small gestures of kindness. Every morning, he asked about my health. Afternoons, he walked with me by the lake. Evenings, we dined together, sharing stories and laughter. My heart softened, though I knew perfection was impossible.
One afternoon, I overheard Mrs. Santos speaking to her doctor. She revealed her fear of dying soon, leaving Gabriel alone. She had chosen me because I was gentle, diligent, and unambitious—someone who would care for him, stay by his side, and not abandon him.
Understanding her motives, my heart ached and softened. I realized that I had not been a mere “trade” for a villa, but someone trusted with love and care. From that day, I vowed never to leave Gabriel, no matter what.
Months later, a sudden health crisis struck. Gabriel collapsed in pain, and I rushed him to the hospital. In his unconscious state, his fingers gripped mine:
— “If you ever feel burdened, leave. Think of the villa as your compensation. I don’t want you to suffer for me…”
I cried, holding his hand tight.
— “No,” I whispered. “I am here to stay. You are my husband, my family.”
He woke, tears in his eyes, but the warmth in his gaze told me everything we needed to know: love does not always require perfection. It is in understanding, companionship, and quiet devotion.
The lakeside villa, once a “reward,” became our home. I planted flowers on the balcony, Gabriel painted in the living room. We shared quiet nights listening to the rain, content in the small joys we built together.
I learned that happiness does not require a flawless union. It comes from choosing to stay, to love, and to care, even when life isn’t perfect. And that night, trembling at the revelation, I discovered a love deeper than I could have imagined—born not from desire, but from trust, patience, and quiet devotion.