I looked at him, feeling a sudden wave of profound pity. He still didn’t get it. He thought this was a negotiation. He thought his mother’s “acceptance” was a prize I was still fighting for.
“You’re wrong, Marco,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the sound of the rain. “You and your mother think you’re the ones who get to decide who stays and who goes. You think you hold all the cards.”
I reached into the drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a heavy, official-looking document stamped by the National Statistics Office and the Family Court of Cebu. I laid it flat on the desk, right in front of him.
“I didn’t just file for legal separation when I left Quezon City, Marco. I filed for something else entirely once I arrived here. And the court granted it last month.”
Marco frowned, his trembling fingers reaching out to turn the document toward him. He began to read the legal text, his eyes darting frantically across the lines, his face growing whiter and whiter with every second that passed.
“What… what is this?” he stammered, his voice losing all its strength. “Maya, what did you do?”
I leaned forward, looking him dead in the eye, mirroring the exact, chilling intensity his mother had used on me seven months ago.
“Look at the birth certificate, Marco. Look at the father’s section. And then look at the restraining order attached to it.”
Marco’s breath hitched as he read the final clauses of the document. His hands began to shake so violently that the paper rattled in his grip. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with absolute terror as he realized the true, devastating depth of what he had lost—and the trap he had just walked into.
