Then came the wedding night—their honeymoon.
They were in the master bedroom. Quiet. Maya was nervous. Lance gently approached his wife. He was ready to accept everything about her—the scars of yesterday, the stretch marks of pregnancy, every sign of motherhood. To him, those were symbols of sacrifice.
“Maya, don’t be shy. I’m your husband now,” Lance said tenderly as he touched her shoulder.
Slowly, Maya removed her robe. She lowered the strap of her nightwear.
When Lance saw his wife’s body, HE TURNED COLD. He froze.
Smooth. Unblemished. No stretch marks on her stomach. No sign that she had given birth even once—let alone three times. Maya’s body looked like that of a young woman who had never been pregnant.
“M-Maya?” Lance asked in shock. “I thought… I thought you had three children?”
Maya lowered her head, trembling. She took a bag beside the bed and pulled out an old photo album and a death certificate…
Maya run her fingers along the edge of the old photo album, as if summoning the courage she had buried for years. Her hands shook so violently that Lance instinctively reached out, but she flinched, pulling away—not in fear of him, but of the memories clawing their way back to the surface.
“I never lied to you,” Maya whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just… never had the strength to tell the truth.”
Lance swallowed hard. His heart pounded, not with anger, but with a growing sense of dread. “Then tell me now,” he said gently. “Whatever it is… I’m here.”
Maya opened the album.
The first photograph showed a much younger Maya, no older than eighteen, standing in front of a dilapidated wooden house in the province. Beside her were three small children—two boys and a little girl—clinging to her skirt, their faces thin, their eyes too old for their age.
Lance’s breath caught. “They’re… not yours?”
Maya shook her head slowly. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “They were my sister’s.”
She flipped to the next page.
Another photograph: a hospital bed. A frail woman lay there, tubes everywhere, her skin pale as paper. Maya was beside her, gripping her hand with both of hers, eyes red from crying.
“My older sister, Rosa,” Maya said. “She was abandoned by her husband when she got pregnant with her first child. She worked in a factory. Long hours. Low pay. Then she met another man… then another. She wasn’t careless—she was desperate. Every man promised help. Every man disappeared.”
Lance clenched his fists. He felt his chest tighten.
“She died giving birth to the third child,” Maya continued. “Postpartum hemorrhage. We were poor. The nearest hospital was two hours away.”
Her voice broke.
“She died holding my hand, Lance. Her last words were… ‘Please don’t let my children be alone.’”
Maya reached into the bag and pulled out the death certificate. Lance stared at the date. It was seven years ago.
“I was eighteen,” Maya said. “I quit school the next day. I sold my phone. My clothes. Everything. I became their mother overnight.”
Lance’s eyes burned. “Then why… why did everyone think they were yours?”
Maya gave a bitter smile. “Because the world is kinder to a woman with ‘shame’ than to children without parents.”
She closed the album and looked at him directly for the first time that night.
