It was June 2018. In a quiet barangay in Laguna, my life was simple and content. I am Rowena, 35 years old, a mother, a wife, and this is my complete story—not to defame anyone, but to remember how I learned to breathe silently amidst the world’s noise.

The mornings in Laguna were the kind with a gentle mist, cool breeze, and the aroma of freshly cooked rice wafting from the neighbors’ homes.

This was where everything began: in our simple house, with simple breakfasts that were repetitive yet shared with warmth. I would wake up before 5:00 AM, wash the rice, season the eggs with salt. Sometimes dried fish, sometimes anchovies, then fried rice (sinangag).

That was our routine: early, frugal, but tender in every interaction. “Art. Wake up. Your coffee is getting cold,” I’d call as I poured it into an old glass.

Arturo, my husband, would emerge shirtless, rub my back, and smile. “Wow, Rowena, you fried garlic! It smells like a fiesta.”

And I would laugh, even though I knew the only feast was fried eggs and rice. The children, half asleep, were already smiling, especially when they smelled the sinangag.

We would lock eyes, tease each other, and share simple dreams over breakfast. “Nanay, we’re going to buy a bike, okay?” “We will, my child, when we have extra money.”

A simple answer, a simple promise. But in my heart, I longed to make it real. Then, Marites, a neighbor who was a former OFW, entered the scene.

She carried a small umbrella and a piece of gossip that turned out to be a real opportunity. “Weng, there’s an opening in Macau. It’s legal. Good contract. Your record is clean. You passed the screening.”

I looked at Arturo. He said nothing, but I knew his quiet sigh. That night, there was a strange coldness in the air.

At the table, I counted the remaining money. I couldn’t complete the expense list. It was always falling short. I looked up, speaking to the ceiling. Lord, how can I fix this?

“If I leave, the income will be big. But I’ll be leaving the children.” It was quiet, but inside, a voice urged me: Try it.

This wasn’t a one-day decision. I spent four nights awake. Five days questioning myself. Until I finally told Arturo, “Art, I’m leaving. Two years, for the children. Can you manage?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I’ll try.” And that was the turning point. I embraced the paperwork: medical certificate, NBI clearance, contract. It was as if my entire life story had been transcribed onto those documents.

I took my ID photo, deliberately applying the look of a person about to leave. I said goodbye to my mother. “Ma, watch over K and Joel, okay?”

“You’ll return, my daughter, as long as your heart remains good.” And then I cried. Not a loud, desperate cry, but a trembling one. Yet, my resolve was strong.

The day of departure arrived. The smell of the airport—a mix of perfumes and anxiety. I hugged my children tightly, wanting to freeze time in my arms. “It’ll be quick, children. Study well, okay?”

“Ma, promise we’ll video call every night!” “Every night?” I asked, even though I knew some nights the signal would be weak, and some nights, my heart would be weaker.

My hug with Arturo was tighter, filled with the unspoken promise: We’re in this dream together. “You’ll come home, right?” he whispered. “I’ll come home,” I promised. Both of us knew this was the ultimate test.

In the airplane seat, I covered my knees with the blanket. I closed my eyes and repeated, “Go, Wena, go.”

Macau greeted me with blinding light, towering glass buildings, a language I didn’t know, and faces that always seemed to be rushing. My world suddenly felt zoomed out.

But I clung to the paper: my name, my employer’s name, the address. This is it. The agency staff met me—efficient, quick, no detours.

We rode a van to the Liang family’s house. The ride was silent. I was silent. Out the window, the lights rushed by—white, yellow, red—like lines drawing a new page of my life.

My first look at the Liang house: clean, cold, exact. The kind of cleanliness where even the air felt scheduled.

I was taught the rules: where the shoes go, where the coats go, how to use the induction stove, the child’s waking time, and the exact seconds needed to press the iron to avoid a mark.

They gave me a manual. And I had to fit inside that manual. Mrs. Liang had a gentle face but spoke with precise language—not harsh, but not warm either.

Mr. Liang spoke softly, always on his phone. Sometimes I overheard them arguing. Their son was a quiet child, only his eyes were loud.

They introduced me: “Rowena.” And in that name, I temporarily shed my other identities: mother, wife, Ate, Weng. Here, I was just Rowena, the new housekeeper.

They gave me a small room. The light was dim, and the shelf was just right for two blankets and one small bag. I unpacked my suitcase. Inside: two blouses, two slacks, slippers, and a framed picture of my children tucked into an old envelope.

“Good night, Rowena,” Madam said as she closed the door. “Good night, Madam,” I replied. And when I faced the wall, I took a deep breath. This is your new home, Rowena.

I didn’t sleep immediately. I listened to the sounds of the city, like a sea with waves of light. I imagined morning back home: the sound of crickets, the smell of soil, the laughter of my children.

Then I brought my gaze back to the ceiling here. White, quiet, with lines that screamed schedule. My first day was also my first careful move. Slow movements. Exact, fearing any mistake.

I steamed the child’s uniform, cooked oatmeal, arranged sliced fruits on a white plate. Work had a rhythm: the sound of the knife, shallow breaths, the constant double-check.

And with every “okay” from Madam, it was like a stamp on my chest: You can breathe now. That evening, I called home. “Ma, how are you there?” My daughter’s voice—happy, eager.

“I’m okay, anak. It’s just colder here. Did you eat?” “Yes. Papa said he’s busy with work but will call you later.” I smiled, but the smile was held by fear. I hope so.

After the call, I sat on the bed. I stared at the photo of my children. I placed it next to my pillow. Then I closed my eyes and counted to 10. Tomorrow again, Rowena. You can do this.

I learned to keep pace with the city. I went with Madam to the market. I counted leafy greens, tofu, vegetables whose names I didn’t know but whose weight and price I memorized.

I memorized the child’s soap brand, the vinegar favored for salad, and the quiet time when Sir must not be disturbed.

In my small notebook, I recorded everything: two boxes of tissue, one liter of milk, sliced fruits at 6:00 AM. When you are so sure of the list, the fear seems to lessen.

But even so, something was missing. No neighbor’s voice, no Ate, can I buy something? No pa-load 20 pesos. And at the end of the day, there was a silence like a box—light to look at, heavy to carry.

There, I taught myself to sleep even when my mind was noisy. Rowena, no crying now. Maybe tomorrow. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

Arturo called often—nightly, at first. “How are you, Weng? Did you eat?” “Yes, Arturo. Did you eat there?” Then a long silence, as if wanting to say I miss you, but replaced with Okay, talk tomorrow.

There were nights when he didn’t answer. Busy, he’d say. I accepted it, because sometimes acceptance is easier than asking questions.

One week, I was allowed a brief outing. I saw other Filipino women. Different accents, the same laughter. Some talked about salaries, some about their wards, some offered me longganisa from a suitcase.

I laughed—a laughter that had been trapped in my chest for too long. “Rowena,” I introduced myself. “Weng.” A piece of home returned to me.

When I returned, my steps were lighter. I opened my small room door. I lay down and told myself: That’s why people like us last. Because there are Sundays, and there are Rowenas in the world.

That night, I called home. Kay answered, happy. Joel was sleepy. Arturo wasn’t on the line. He’s out, they said. I stayed silent. “Tell Papa I miss him,” I said softly. “Yes, Ma.”

After the call, I folded my blanket neatly. As if tidying the edges would remove the anxiety. The fear didn’t leave, but it became quiet.

The routine deepened. I knew the exact drops of dishwashing liquid needed to prevent slippery plates. I knew the exact number of turns on the window needed to let air in but keep dust out.

And I knew how to say “okay” to Madam, even when what I meant was I’m exhausted. In my notebook, I put a small star on that day. Good job, Rowena.

I lay down. I took out my children’s photo. Kay and Joel, you are constant in my mind. In the darkness, a small light shone from my phone. A notification, no name. I didn’t open it.

I took a deep breath. Tomorrow. In the following days, I learned to keep up with the city’s heartbeat. And that was when I first saw him.

A smile, a coffee, a Did you eat already? A Rico I didn’t yet know. He would become the gray area of my life. This was the beginning, the quiet life that would slowly crack.

Not because the world was bad, but because some dreams are stronger than fear, and some silences are louder than screams.

One day, Madam brought me to the market. We bought vegetables whose names I couldn’t pronounce at first, but whose color and cooking time I quickly mastered.

By the coffee stall, I saw him for the first time. The man with keys tucked between his fingers. The laughter that sounded familiar, used to talking to the world. Rico, the driver for another family.

I didn’t know his name yet. I first heard the sound of the van he drove. Then, his excuse me in Tagalog mixed with a laugh. We just exchanged glances.

I was holding a bag of vegetables. He was holding a paper cup of coffee. Nothing special. No story yet. But I remember the respectful way he said, I should get going now.

Simple, yet he seemed to carry his own untold story. That night, I wrote in my notebook: Driver at market. Spoke well. I didn’t add anything more. I didn’t need to.

Sometimes, a single sentence is enough to remember a face. The following week, the city became a metronome for me. Step, stop, look, then step again.

I saw Rico again at the school drop-off. He opened the door for his employer’s child. I was adjusting the bag of the child I cared for. “Good morning,” he said. Shorter now, with a slight smile.

“Good morning,” I replied, softly. It was drizzling. I took out the small umbrella Madam left me. Rico approached. He offered his umbrella. He didn’t take mine. He just watched.

“Are you always without a jacket?” he asked. “I’m okay,” I replied, looking down. I didn’t want the conversation to linger. “The air is nice when it’s like this,” he said, looking up. I looked up too, at the tin-colored, heavy clouds.

I smiled a little. “It’s better when you’re not rushing,” I said. And he laughed softly. I didn’t immediately find this strange. With the many people I encountered daily, it was normal for one to stick in my memory.

But I noticed that when Rico was at the drop-off or the market, I felt better. As if a small piece of normalcy existed amidst the sounds I didn’t understand.

At night, I counted the hours before calling home. Sometimes I was right on time, often I was late. “Papa?” I asked Kay. “Ma, Papa came home late,” she answered. “It’s okay. Tell him I miss him.”

After hanging up, I stared at my phone’s wallpaper. A picture of the four of us. I prayed that we were still four in reality, not just in the picture.

One afternoon, the elevator broke down. I had been standing all day, and my heels were burning. While waiting, a familiar voice passed by. “Are you okay?” It was Rico.

“Yes,” I replied. “Just tired.” He handed me a paper cup of coffee. The same scent as when I first saw him at the market. “I don’t have a straw,” he smiled. “But it tastes good.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not hot.” I accepted it—a polite gratitude mixed with fear. I drank. It was bitter, but it warmed the cold in my stomach. “Thank you,” I said. “I should go now.”

He replied, “Go ahead,” and walked away, not looking back. And strangely, my feet felt lighter. I thought of Art; it had been a long time since I felt such simple kindness. I didn’t blame him. Maybe he was just tired too.

But sometimes, the rest you need comes from a How are you? that you didn’t even ask for. Sunday came again. I met a group of Filipinas at the park, sharing bread and hotdogs on sticks.

Their laughter was joyous. Different stories, but they all wore the same walking shoes. Someone mentioned a free legal seminar at the consulate next month. Someone asked where to buy cheap load.

I sat with them. “Where are you assigned?” they asked. “The Liangs,” I replied. Silence for a moment. “Madam is strict,” one said. Like gossip, but with understanding. “Disciplined,” I corrected. That was the right word: disciplined.

While we were talking, a familiar horn sounded at the edge of the park. I looked over. The van. Rico was in the driver’s seat. He picked someone up, then briefly looked in our direction.

He didn’t get out. He didn’t call anyone. The scene just passed, but it left the feeling that he knew where I was. Maybe it’s normal, he’s a driver, it’s his job to pass through places. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Monday to Wednesday, back to the scheduled routine. Tidy toys, sanitize the counter, iron uniforms, grocery list. Madam was the same: spoke well, clear goals, no excess, no shortage.

Sir was often absent, then suddenly home. As if you needed to be careful with the piles of papers on his desk. I stayed steady. That’s how it should be.

One afternoon, as I entered the stock room door, I got a text. Are you okay? Unknown number. “Who’s this?” I replied. Rico, don’t worry. I got your number from the attendant at the market. Consider me a friend.

I stayed silent for a moment. It wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t comfortable either. “I’m okay. Thank you.” I replied, briefly. If you need a jacket when it rains, just tell me.

I didn’t reply again. I wrote in my notebook: Don’t get used to things that shouldn’t be. I signed it with a small star. A reminder to myself.

That evening, I was coming home after buying milk. The automatic door of the lobby opened. The air was cold. Rico was leaning there. Holding a small umbrella.

“Hey,” he said, as if we had known each other for a long time. “So you pass this way?” “Yes, here.” I replied. “Perfect. I have an extra umbrella. Take it. I won’t use it anyway.”

I looked down at the floor, at the rain drops, at the black umbrella with a small scratch on the tip. “Thank you,” I said. I took it. “It’s nothing,” he replied with a quick smile.

“By the way, what time do you usually finish? So if it rains, I can walk you home, and you won’t get soaked.” That was the first time I felt a little twist in my stomach. A question that sounded kind but knew too much about my day’s rhythm.

“It depends on Madam,” I said. “Ah, got it. Just text me. We’re safe.” he said with a wink that was hard to tell if it was a joke or serious.

I nodded and went straight to the elevator. Inside, I gripped the umbrella. It was slightly heavy. As if it carried an unspoken question I couldn’t let go of.

In my room, I placed the umbrella under the table. Kay texted. Ma, I got a perfect score in spelling. I smiled, replied immediately. Mama is proud. Ice cream treat tomorrow, even if it’s small.

After sending it, my phone rang again. It’s going to rain tomorrow. Jacket, please. Rico. I didn’t reply. I pulled the blanket over my legs. Closed my eyes and counted to 10.

Rico was kind, but I needed to remember why I was here. Work, family, going home. That was the straight line.

The problem with cities like this is that the straight line often curves. A few months later, I approached Mrs. Liang. “I’m exhausted. I want to go home to Laguna to be with my children.”

“Madam, just two weeks leave. Family emergency,” I pleaded, looking down. “No vacation. Finish contract first.” Her response was cold. “Madam, just one week, please. I just want to see my children.”

“I said no, Rowena. Don’t argue. Maybe in December.” “But Ma’am, it’s been too long since I was home.” “Sorry. It’s truly not possible.” As she left, I stood alone in the kitchen. I clutched my apron, which was already damp with tears.

All I wanted was rest—the kind of rest that came with my children’s embrace. But even that seemed too expensive here.

The next day, as I was leaving the market, I ran into Rico. “Hey, Wena, you look tired. Are you okay?”

I smiled faintly. “Just a little. I miss the children.” “Are you going home?” “I wanted to, but Madam didn’t allow me again.”

He was silent for a moment, then his gaze changed. “You know, if they won’t let you go, there’s always a way.” “I know someone who can help. It will be quick. Just tell me if you want to go home.”

I didn’t immediately grasp his meaning, but his tone carried a coldness that wasn’t from the rain. I looked away, shaking my head. “No, Rico. It’s just work. I can handle it.”

He smiled, but his eyes didn’t. “Just say the word. I’ll do it for you.” Returning home, I felt uneasy. His words—there’s always a way—repeated in my mind. Was he joking? Was he genuinely kind?

But why did his words carry a disturbing undertone? From then on, I was careful. I didn’t reply to his texts immediately. When I saw him in the lobby, I just smiled and went straight to the elevator.

I didn’t want to reach a point where I was the one who looked guilty. That night. The Liang house was quiet. I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I heard shouting upstairs.

Sir Liang’s voice was furious. And there was a second voice—Rico’s. “You have no right to Rowena. You’re just exploiting her.”

I ran upstairs. When I reached the hallway, I smelled gunpowder and Madam’s perfume. I pushed the door open: blood was the first thing that greeted me.

Mrs. Liang lay motionless. Sir Liang was crawling toward the phone, his chest bleeding. And in the middle, Rico, panting, holding a gun. “Rowena, I didn’t mean to. This is for us. I just wanted to set you free.”

“Rico, what have you done?” “They were the obstacles. They wouldn’t let you leave. Now you’re free.” I fell to my knees. My God. When I tried to reach for the gun, he pushed me.

A lampshade fell. The curtain burst into flames. I ran out of the room as the fire grew. “Rowena, don’t leave me!” Rico screamed, chasing me.

I climbed the stairs, the air heavy with rain and horror. I hid behind the water tank. My hands were shaking, wet with blood. I didn’t know whose it was.

Footsteps sounded below. “Rowena, where are you?” Rico’s voice, but a different tone. Cold, slow. “You won’t leave me, right?” I remained silent. Until I heard the front door slam shut, followed by the sound of an engine starting outside. He ran. He left me.

The next morning, the house was filled with police. I was the prime suspect. The TV showed: Filipina domestic suspect in Macau Double Murder.

The police searched the entire building. The CCTV was clear: Rico entered the house carrying a backpack. I followed a few minutes later. Then, gunshots. When he emerged, he carried an envelope—Mr. Liang’s money.

He even looked at the camera before leaving. As if my world was sinking. The person who gave me hope was also the criminal. “So you had an affair with him?” the investigator asked. I just shook my head. I had no words.

How do you explain that the man who made you feel hope was also the reason for your downfall? The next day, Rico was caught at the Zhuhai border. He had money, a passport, and a photo of the two of us.

In the arrest video, he looked at the camera and smiled. I told you, Rowena, we’ll be together in the end. When I returned to the Philippines, I was headline news again. Filipina OFW tricked by lover. Accused of murder. Now, I was free. But even free, I couldn’t find peace.

Whenever the rain poured, I heard Rico’s voice. You won’t leave me, right? I didn’t know if it was a nightmare or the ghost of my conscience.

Sometimes, at night, a figure passed my store. A man in a wet hoodie. And with every passing, I heard a whisper. Rowena.

I thought Macau was the nightmare, but returning home brought a deeper betrayal. The betrayal of the man I loved, and the man who I thought would save me.

After months of investigation, Rico was finally convicted of the murder of Mr. and Mrs. Liang. I was acquitted. My name was cleared. But with every breath, I still felt the weight. Even free, I felt trapped by fear.

So, I decided to go home. I would go home to the Philippines, hoping to find peace there. When I landed at the airport, I immediately smelled the scent of the earth after the rain. I thought that was the smell of hope.

I carried only one suitcase and the trauma I brought from Macau. In my barangay, the neighbors barely recognized me. “Hey, that’s Rowena! The one from the news.”

They whispered. I smiled, even though I wanted to cry. I ignored them, because the important thing was seeing my children and Arturo again. When I arrived at the house, there was a child outside. About three years old. Playing in the sand. Holding a toy.

When I approached, Arturo came out. A woman was behind him, carrying a dipper and a bottle of milk. “Arturo,” I said, almost a whisper. “Rowena!” he replied, shocked, then looked at the woman.

“Who is this?” I asked. “Jessa, my wife.” It felt like a cold wind hit me. Wife. I was only gone for three years. And the child playing looked like Arturo, but wasn’t mine.

“You didn’t even wait for me,” I said. He was silent. Then he said, “I thought you wouldn’t come back. I thought you were in prison.” The thought was like a knife to my chest. Jessa held the child, smiling faintly.

“Sorry, Ate Rowena.” I walked away before I could break. The rain suddenly poured, and I felt utterly alone. The next day, I went to my mother’s old house. There, I learned that Arturo had stopped sending money long ago.

Our children were staying with relatives temporarily. I looked at the ceiling and smiled bitterly. Wena, no matter where you go, the world keeps betraying you.

After a few weeks, I helped sell goods at the market. No one knew my full story. Some thought I was crazy. But at night, I wrote everything in my notebook.

The names that were destroyed, the dreams that vanished, and the nights I didn’t want to remember. Sometimes I saw Arturo in the corner. Carrying his child with Jessa. He smiled, but I turned away.

Because sometimes, the cruelest punishment for betrayal is when you feel nothing anymore. A year later, I saved some money. I opened a small store in San Pablo. Quiet, but peaceful.

At night, I looked at the roof and remembered the roof deck in Macau where I first learned to be silent to survive. Now, I preferred the silence. Because in silence, there are no lies, no shouting, no guns, no broken promises.

Love without trust is like a roof in a storm. No matter how much you fix it, it will still collapse when it’s full of tears. Until now, the people in Macau haven’t forgotten that night.

The night someone was killed in a palatial room. The night a Filipina hid on the roof deck to survive. And here in the Philippines, another woman continues to live, carrying the weight of two betrayals.

The betrayal of the man she loved, and the man she thought would save her. I am Rowena, and this is the story of the woman who almost lost her life to a friend, and then lost it again to a cruel truth in her own home.