I am Sergio, 52 years old. A simple man, life is not luxurious, but I am content because I am with my wife Chona. We are the same age. We have been together for twenty-five years through thick and thin, through tears and laughter.
When we got married, we didn't have a big party. It was a small ceremony, but it was full of promise—a promise to take care of each other for the rest of our lives. I kept that promise to the best of my ability. I tried to be a good husband and father.
We have a daughter, our greatest blessing. She is the reason my husband and I worked so hard. We raised her with love and care until she graduated with a degree in chemical engineering. I have no other desire than to give her all the opportunities I never had.
I thought we were complete. Our lives were quiet. We were old, yes, but still together, still happy. Until one night that I will never forget.
We ate dinner in silence. I wondered why he couldn't look at me. I could feel something bothering him. After we had cleaned up, he came to me, holding my arm. His eyes were puffy, his lips were trembling.
"Sergio," he said in a voice that was almost a whisper, "I need to talk to you. Please don't be angry… but I've been wanting to say this for a long time."
I stopped. I felt my heart beat faster.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
Tears welled up in her eyes. "I wish we could break up."
It was like cold water was poured on me. I don't know where it came from. We don't have any big fights. We're not perfect, but we always support each other.
"Why?" I could barely open my mouth.
There she spilled the secret she had been keeping for a long time. "Sergio… before we got married, something bad happened to me. A man did something disgusting… he raped me. And… and… our child… he is the real father."
It was as if the world had fallen on me. I didn't know what to feel first—the pain, the anger, or the pity for him. I saw in his eyes the intense shame and fear.
"I don't want to lie to you anymore. I know you love us, but I can't hide it anymore," she said, crying.
I sat down. I felt weak. But in the midst of everything, I had one clear thought: the child was not at fault. He was my son at heart. I raised him. I taught him to ride a bike, I supported him whenever he was sick.
"Chona," I said, holding her hand even though I was still shaking, "I don't know how I'm going to feel right now. But I'm sure of one thing—I love you. I can't destroy our family. Especially since our son is innocent."
She was sobbing. We were silent for a long time. We sat side by side for hours, silent, just crying.
To this day, he's sulking in his room. He can't decide whether to continue with the divorce. I'm also unsure about my feelings. But it's clear to me: if our son finds out, his character might be crushed.
I chose to remain silent for now. I tried to remember all the happy years we had. That even though he wasn't my blood child, he was my child in every other way.
I don't know if I made the right decision to continue everything, or if I should let Chona walk away. But for now, I hope she will come back to us, to me, to the family we have built over the past 25 years.
