“Mars, I saw your husband and Mareng Delia holding hands behind the church.”
# ALING DELIA’S EATERY
## Chapter 1
“Mars, I saw your husband and Mareng Delia holding hands behind the church.”
The world seemed to stop in that moment as I held the rag I was using to wipe down the eatery table. My hands suddenly went cold even though the midday sun was blazing and I was drenched in sweat from the kitchen heat. I paused and stared at Mareng Josie, our gossipy neighbor whom I knew never lied about such things. “What are you saying, Mare?” I struggled to get the words out while trying to keep my voice from trembling, as if something was lodged in my throat that refused to let me believe what I was hearing. “Are you sure about what you saw?” I asked as the rag slowly slipped from my hand onto the cement floor streaked with grease from the dishes I had been cooking earlier.
“Of course, Mars!” Mareng Josie whispered as she drew closer to my station, her eyes wide with pity as if she wanted to embrace me but couldn’t because she knew how painful the news she carried was. “Just earlier after the seven o’clock mass, I saw them walking toward the back of the church, and then they hid by the mango tree there. They probably thought no one would see them at that hour, but they didn’t know I was at Aling Nena’s store buying coffee.” My hands trembled as I tried to reach for the rag on the floor, but I couldn’t seem to move because every gesture felt heavy, as if the weight of Mareng Josie’s news was clinging to every bone and joint in my body. “I’m absolutely sure, Mars,” she added, gripping my shoulder and looking me straight in the eyes. “I know Kuya Boy and I know Aling Delia. I don’t mistake the faces of my neighbors.”
The clock on the eatery wall chimed eleven in the morning, but each passing second felt agonizingly slow as I desperately tried to recall the past days and whether I had noticed anything strange about my husband or Delia. Kuya Boy, my husband who drove a jeepney and for whom I prepared his packed lunch every morning—rice with adobo or pork sinigang, his favorites—always came home early, and I hadn’t noticed any change in him except that he always seemed tired in the afternoons. Aling Delia, our neighbor who ran a sari-sari store on the next street with her three children, had been my friend ever since they moved to our barangay five years ago, and we often chatted while buying groceries at the market on Sunday mornings.
“What were they doing behind the church?” I asked softly, slowly lifting my eyes to meet Mareng Josie’s hesitant gaze, as if she was holding back something deeper she didn’t know how to tell me. “Were they laughing? Talking? What were they doing there at that hour when they should have been working?” The questions poured out as I felt my temples begin to throb and each heartbeat pounded against my chest like a relentless wave of pain.
“Mars,” Mareng Josie whispered, glancing around nervously as if afraid someone might overhear. “It wasn’t just hand-holding that I saw. I saw them enter a motel yesterday afternoon.”
## Chapter 2
Something exploded in my head when I heard those words from Mareng Josie. My knees buckled and I grabbed the eatery table to keep from collapsing to the floor as my surroundings seemed to spin and I lost my breath from the sheer agony in my chest. “M-Motel?” I stammered as tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I forced them not to fall because I knew if I cried here in the eatery, all our regular customers would see and it would become barangay gossip that our family had problems. “Where? When? Why didn’t you tell me right away?” I fired question after question at Mareng Josie, who now seemed to regret having told me everything, but she couldn’t take back the words I had already heard etched into my mind.
“Yesterday afternoon, Mars,” she replied, pulling me to sit on a chair beside the eatery. She poured me a glass of cold water that I didn’t even drink because I just stared blankly, trying to process all the information. “Three in the afternoon. I saw them board a tricycle heading to the highway, and I followed because I was curious where they were going at that hour when Kuya Boy should have been home resting or Delia should have been at her store, but they didn’t go to the market or the church. They went straight to the motel on the corner of Rizal Avenue.” Mareng Josie squeezed my hand tightly as she spoke, as if wanting me to feel that she was there for me amidst the pain I was experiencing.
“How can you be sure it was them?” I asked in a faint, almost whispering voice while staring at my hands resting on the table, wet with grease and fallen rice. I didn’t know what to do with these hands that cooked every day for my husband and children.
“Mars, I saw their faces when they got off the tricycle,” Mareng Josie answered, concern lacing her voice. “I saw Kuya Boy carrying a bag, and I saw Aling Delia wearing that red dress she often wears on special occasions. I’m not mistaken, Mars. I know them.” My first tear fell when I heard that because I knew everything Mareng Josie was saying was true. She wouldn’t lie to me, especially about something that could destroy my family and my friendship with Delia.
“What time did they leave the motel?” I asked, wiping my tears with the back of my greasy hand.
“I didn’t wait, Mars,” she replied, embracing me as if I were a hurt child. “I was afraid they might see me, and I was also afraid you’d be even more hurt if I saw them leave together.” I hugged Mareng Josie and poured out all the pain I was feeling—all the bewilderment about why my husband and my friend could do this behind my back.
After a few minutes of crying, I decided I couldn’t stay like this; I needed to know the truth from my husband, so I stood up and resolved to wait for Kuya Boy at home. He arrived around seven in the evening, smelling of gasoline and exhausted from driving his jeepney all day. When he saw me sitting in the living room with a stern face and tear-streaked cheeks, he stopped short at the door. “What happened, Love?” he asked with concern, setting down his bag and approaching me, but I pulled away when he tried to touch me.
“Boy,” I said in a soft voice but filled with the intense emotion I had been suppressing for so long. “Is it true? How long have you and Delia been together? Answer me!”
## Chapter 3
Our eyes met in the cold light of the living room lamp, and in that moment, I saw the fear in Kuya Boy’s eyes—like a child caught stealing candy from a store. His hands trembled as he removed his cap and placed it on the table. “What are you talking about?” he stammered, forcing a smile, but the nervousness in his voice was unmistakable, as if a thorn was lodged in his throat. “Who told you that? It’s not true, Love. People around us are just lying.”
“Boy, don’t fool me anymore,” I replied, my voice growing stronger with a mixture of anger and pain I had long suppressed. “Someone saw you and Delia yesterday afternoon. You were seen entering the motel on Rizal Avenue. Don’t lie to me anymore, Boy. I already know the truth.” I stepped closer to him and looked directly into his eyes. I wanted to see if he could look at me honestly while lying to my face.
Kuya Boy bowed his head and couldn’t meet my gaze. His hands scratched the back of his neck as if he didn’t know what to do in this situation, and in that silence, I realized everything Mareng Josie had said was true. “Love, forgive me,” he whispered, kneeling before me and grasping my hands, which were numb from pain and exhaustion. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. It started without me realizing it. It was a mistake, Love. A huge mistake.”
“How long have you been together, Boy?” I asked, trying to hold back my tears because I wanted to hear the whole truth from him. I needed to know how long I had been deceived by my husband and my friend.
“Five months, Love,” he answered, his voice drenched in regret—though I couldn’t tell if that regret was genuine or just fear of losing me. “It started when we happened to be at the market at the same time. We talked, then we met again, and before I knew it, something had happened between us.” My entire body trembled at those words from my husband—the man I had married twenty years ago, the father of my three children whom I had cared for and cooked for every single day.
“Do you know, Boy,” I said softly, pulling away and walking to the window that faced Delia’s house across the street, “everyone in the barangay knew except me. They were all covering for my husband.” I looked at Delia’s house and saw her children playing outside—the children I had thought were friends to my own, the children whose mother had been in a relationship with my husband for five months.
I gripped the wall as tears poured down my face, because only now did I realize that all our neighbors knew about my husband’s relationship with Delia. Aling Nena with her corner store, Mang Cardo the fish vendor, Aling Loring the laundress—they all knew what was happening behind my back but no one told me. “Why didn’t you tell me, Boy?” I asked, facing the window because I couldn’t bear to look at my husband through the overwhelming pain. “Why did someone else have to tell me about you? Why couldn’t you just face me and tell the truth?”
“I was afraid, Love,” he replied, stepping closer, but I avoided his touch. “I was afraid of losing you, afraid of losing our children, afraid of what others would say.” I turned to him and saw his eyes filled with tears, but I no longer felt pity for him because the pity I felt now was for myself and our children who would be caught up in this sin.
“Boy,” I said in a cold voice I didn’t know where I found the strength to muster. “Leave the house for now. I need to think. I need to figure out what to do with our family.” I saw the fear in Kuya Boy’s eyes when he heard those words, but I knew I needed time and space to think, to process everything that had happened, to figure out how to face the betrayal of the two people closest to me.
## Chapter 4
Three days had passed since I asked Kuya Boy to leave, and in those three days, I hadn’t eaten properly nor slept soundly because every time I closed my eyes, I saw my husband and Delia together in that motel. I temporarily closed my eatery because I couldn’t face our customers who apparently knew about my husband’s relationship with Delia but never told me. “Ate, please eat,” my eldest daughter Liza, eighteen years old, said as she placed a bowl of porridge before me, but I couldn’t even lift the spoon because of the heaviness in my chest. “You can’t keep going like this. You need to eat for us.”
I looked at my children standing before me, their eyes filled with worry and fear—my three children Liza, Mark, and Andrei, who didn’t know how to help their mother through this problem. “Okay, I’ll eat,” I said weakly, forcing myself to pick up the spoon and try to eat a little for their sake, but every bite felt like something was stuck in my throat preventing me from swallowing. “How are you doing in school? Any problems with your classmates?” I asked, trying to focus on my children to forget the pain even for a moment.
“We’re fine, Ma,” Mark answered. He was fifteen and looked serious and quiet, unable to meet my eyes directly, as if he too was hiding something. “No problems.” But I knew there was a problem because I could see my children avoiding my gaze, and I knew they weren’t telling me something.
After they ate and cleaned the house, they left for school, leaving me alone in the silent, cold house. I didn’t know how long I sat in the living room doing nothing but staring at the wall and thinking about everything that had happened, until a knock at the door shattered the silence. I opened it to find Delia’s daughter Michelle, thirteen years old, carrying a plastic bag filled with vegetables and fruits. “Ate, Mama said to bring this to you,” Michelle said, holding out the plastic, but I couldn’t accept it because of the pain I felt toward her mother.
“Child, why are you bringing this?” I asked, trying to smile but knowing the sadness on my face was obvious. “Where did these vegetables come from?”
“From our store,” Michelle replied, standing at the door as if she had something to say but didn’t know how. “Mama… she said she needs to tell you something, but I don’t know what.” I looked at the child and saw the worry in her eyes, and in that moment, I pitied her because I knew this child would be caught up in her mother’s and my husband’s sin.
“Thank you, child,” I said, taking the plastic and forcing a smile. “Go home now and study well.” After she left, I closed the door and leaned against the wall, trying to hold back my tears. I didn’t know how I would face the coming days. I didn’t know how I would go on.
Hours later, Liza came home from school and went straight to my room with fear and worry in her eyes. “Ma, I need to tell you something,” she said, approaching me and taking my cold, trembling hand. “Ate, Delia is pregnant. Her child told my child at school.”
## Chapter 5
When I heard the news from Liza, it felt like a sharp knife had been driven into my chest that I couldn’t remove no matter how hard I tried, because my husband’s betrayal wasn’t just a simple affair—it had consequences I could no longer ignore. Delia was pregnant—my neighbor and friend who ran a store on the next street, a mother of three just like me—was pregnant with my husband’s child, and I didn’t know how to face that reality. “Are you sure, child?” I asked Liza, trying to steady my trembling hands from the resentment and pain I felt. “Who told you? When did they say it?”
“Michelle did, Ma,” Liza answered, kneeling before me and holding both my hands, which seemed to grow colder at the news she brought. “Earlier at school, she told me her mother was pregnant and she didn’t know who the father was. But I know, Ma. I know who it is.” Tears fell when I heard that because I knew my child’s suspicion was right. Everyone in the barangay knew that the father of Delia’s unborn child was my husband, and I was the last to find out.
“Liza, my child,” I said softly, embracing her and trying to hold back tears so she wouldn’t worry more. “Thank you for telling me. I need to think. I need to figure out what to do.” I spent the whole day sitting in the living room, doing nothing but staring at the ceiling and thinking about everything—twenty years of marriage with Kuya Boy, five months of betrayal, and the baby Delia would bring into the world that carried half my husband’s blood.
The next day, I gathered the courage to visit Delia at her store. When she saw me at her door holding a small box of old photographs, she froze and her face paled as if she had seen a ghost. “Aling Delia,” I said in a calm but cold voice I didn’t know where I found the strength to muster, “I know everything. I know about you and Kuya Boy, and I know about the child.” Delia gripped the doorframe, her hands trembling as she looked at me as if she wanted to explain but couldn’t because of shame and fear.
“Aling Nena, forgive me,” Delia whispered, kneeling before me as her tears fell like rain. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t know how it started, but I love Kuya Boy and I can’t hide my feelings anymore.” I looked at her and in that moment, I felt all the pain that had accumulated in my heart over five months—the pain of betrayal by my friend and husband, the pain of their pretending smiles in front of me, the pain of being the last to know everything.
“Delia,” I said in a soft but steady voice, kneeling before her so we could face each other as equals, “I can’t forgive you now, and I don’t know when I will be able to. But I know one thing: a true neighbor doesn’t destroy another’s family. When trust is broken by a neighbor, the whole barangay suffers.” I stood up and turned my back on her, and in that moment, I felt my strength slowly returning—the strength I needed to face the days ahead.
When I returned home, I called Kuya Boy and told him we needed to talk. He arrived an hour later carrying a bag of his clothes, fear in his eyes as if he already knew the fate of our marriage. “Love, forgive me,” he said, kneeling before me in the living room, his hands pressed to the floor and his head bowed. “I can’t lose you. I can’t lose our family.”
“Boy,” I said softly but with determination, “you know how much I loved you. You know how much I valued our twenty years together. But I can’t continue knowing you cheated on me and our family. You need to leave, Boy, and I need to start over.” I watched his face fall, his eyes filled with tears and regret, but I no longer felt pity because I knew that love mixed with betrayal isn’t true love.
Kuya Boy placed his jeepney keys on the table and quietly left the house. When I closed the door behind him, I felt the weight of my decision but knew it was the right one for me and my children. I closed the eatery for a month—not out of shame, but because I needed to heal myself, to recover from the wounds caused by the betrayal of the two people closest to me.
During that month, my children and some true friends who never tired of visiting and bringing food helped me—Mareng Josie, who was the first to tell me the truth, and Aling Nena, who offered to help me reopen the eatery. I learned to value the people who were honest with me, those who never betrayed my trust and love.
When I returned to the eatery a month later, my business was stronger because my true friends had helped me. Mareng Josie became my new cooking partner, Aling Nena provided capital for additional inventory, and our regular customers who had once been silent became more open in talking and connecting with me. Kuya Boy and Delia didn’t last either, because a relationship built on lies and betrayal has no solid foundation, and after a few months, they quietly disappeared from the barangay like bubbles.
Now, as I cook adobo for my customers at the eatery, I remember everything I went through but no longer feel pain. I’ve learned to value myself, my children, and the true friends who became my support during my trials.
The lesson I carry with me to this day is simple but true: a true neighbor doesn’t destroy another’s family, and when trust is broken by a neighbor, the whole barangay suffers. But the love of family and true friends is stronger than any betrayal, and in the end, truth and self-forgiveness are what truly heal our wounds.
My eatery remains open, the aroma of adobo and sinigang spreads throughout the barangay, and my heart is slowly healing with the help of those who truly love me.
