I am Lara, 23 years old. My mother and I had been together for a long time, so when she married a foreign but balikbayan man named Tito Carlo, I had a new world. Tito was handsome, caring, quiet, and a gentleman — but there was something deep in his eyes that always seemed to want to say something.
Right from the start, I could sense Tito’s strange behavior whenever we were together in the kitchen, in the living room, or at the dining table. Not rude. But he would stare for a long time. As if he had a question… or an offer.
I ignored him right away. But one night while I was studying at the dining table, he passed by, freshly showered. White shirt, hair still wet, and a smile on his lips.
“Aren’t you sleeping yet?” he asked.
“Just finishing something,” I replied, looking away. But I felt him stop behind me. He watched me. Silently.
“You’re so diligent,” he whispered. “That’s probably why you’re so attractive.”
I bit my lip hard. I thought I had heard wrong. But it was true.
The next day, I woke up and Mama wasn’t there. She was leaving for the countryside to take care of their land. Tito and I would be left at home for two days.
The first day was quiet. Until night. We decided to watch a movie. There was only one sofa. We were next to each other. His arm was wrapped around mine. He didn’t move away.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” But I could feel the heat. Not just in my body, but between the two of us.
Until one scene in the movie—a kiss, deep, with tension. Suddenly I felt his hand land on my knee. It didn’t move, but it was there.
I looked at him. He looked back at me. We didn’t speak. But our eyes were screaming.
His face slowly came closer. “Lara…” he said. “Just tell me if you want me to stop.”
I couldn’t answer. Instead, I closed my eyes.
I couldn’t tell if what happened was right. We didn’t continue with what was supposed to be a kiss. He lifted his face and took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
But the truth is, I want to too. I want to understand him. I want to feel the warmth of someone who shouldn’t be in love with me.
Since then, my feelings have become more chaotic. Nothing has happened between us yet, but every glance, every touch of skin, every night of silence is filled with questions and tension.
Mama will be back tomorrow. On Tito and I’m last night at home, she said:
“I don’t love you, my child. But I don’t want to hurt your mother. I don’t own you. But I think about you every hour.”
My tears flowed. “I don’t know what I’m feeling either. But I know it’s true.”

The next day, Mama returned, as if nothing had happened. Back to the old ways. Me, Tito, Mama — a “happy” family in the eyes of others. But under the dining table, Tito and I often had our knees touching. Sometimes, because we were so close, I could feel his breath on the back of my neck as he combed my hair, ostensibly to take care of me. But we both knew — that wasn’t just simple care.
One afternoon, while Mama was asleep in their room, I went downstairs to get some water. Tito was in the living room, watching basketball, but not in a daze. He looked at me, and for a moment, it was as if we were no longer at home. The walls were gone, the time was gone. He came closer.
“Lara,” he whispered softly, “if this is the last time I touch you, will you let me?”
I couldn’t answer. He grabbed my waist. His palm was hot. Enough to set my defenses on fire. His grip tightened. My body tightened. Until his lips touched my neck.
I agreed.
And there, in the very living room where we ate together as a family — that’s where he tasted me. Slow. Hot. Full of restraint but no intention of backing down.
From then on, everything became a secret. We exchanged glances whenever Mama wasn’t looking. There were nights when he would glance at my room before entering his and Mama’s room. It was as if he was waiting for the door to open. And sometimes, it did.
I didn’t know if what I was feeling was right — or if it was just an addiction to a strange thrill. The forbidden was delicious, ‘ika. But the guilt was sharper than any kiss.
One day, I received a message from an unknown number:
“I know what you’re doing. You’re not safe.”
I was stunned. Does anyone know?
A few days passed. Tito was silent. It was as if he was avoiding someone. Me, restless. Until one night, while we were eating dinner, Mama suddenly put down the spoon.
“I want to ask you something,” she said, looking straight at me. “Lara, are you and my husband having an affair?”
I stopped. Tito stood up. “What are you talking about?”
But Mama was already crying. “Someone saw you. And I have evidence. In the living room. In the CR. In my son’s room.”
That’s when I completely collapsed. I didn’t speak anymore. I couldn’t let it slip away. Mama burst into tears. My whole world felt like it had collapsed.
Mama left the next day, carrying her belongings and the pain of a mother who had been cheated on — not by another woman, but by her son. Tito? Left behind. But we didn’t talk anymore.
Me? I was left blaming myself. Yes, my stepfather had a taste of me. But the truth is? I was also the first to give in.
I don’t know if this is love… Or a sin worthy of a lifetime of suffering.

After Mama left, the house became cold. There was no more shouting, no more laughter, and most of all—Tito and I had no reason to hide.
One morning, he came to me. Lethargic. It was as if he was no longer the man who had warmed my body before.
“Get out of here, Lara,” he said. “It’s not safe for you. It’s not safe for me either.”
I didn’t know whether I was angry or sad. But maybe he was right. So that week, I moved into the dorm. Left the house. Left the temptation.
And that’s when I felt the weight of it all. I cried every night, writing down the secrets I couldn’t tell anyone. Not even myself.
Months passed. Mama and I didn’t see each other. But I wrote her. A long, honest letter.
“Mom, I won’t ask you to forgive me. But I want to admit it: I was wrong. I didn’t mean to, but I didn’t want to be corrected either. I chose anger over dignity. And you were the one who was hurt the most.”
I didn’t know if he would read that. But with every word I wrote, it was like I was being flayed alive. It hurt. But it was necessary.
I went back to school. I worked. I gradually built myself up. Not to escape the past—but to face it.
A year passed. Mom and I met again in the hospital—my niece had a fever, and we both visited.
She was quiet. Me too. Until she sat down next to me.
“You’re grown up, Lara,” she said. “You know how to get hurt. But true learning is when you know how not to hurt.”
I cried. She didn’t say if she forgave me. But her presence was enough for me to feel… maybe there was still hope.
I never saw Tito again. I heard he went back to the province and opened a small cafe. We never spoke again. Maybe because we both knew—each other was a reminder of all the wrongs.
Now, my life is quieter. No more forbidden kisses. No more secrets at night.
But in the midst of it all, I learned:
Life doesn’t end with perfection… but with the ability to correct oneself even when no one is applauding.