I'm Legal Wife

I never dreamed of a luxurious life. Even when I was young, it was already clear to me that dreams were not about how grand they were, but about how reachable they could be. I grew up accustomed to scarcity, to constant reminders that every decision came with a cost, and that one wrong step might never be taken back. Maybe that's why I learned early on how to plan—not because I wanted to control everything, but because I was afraid of losing direction. "Fix your papers first before you come home," Mama said as she handed me the folder, already worn thin from being opened so many times. "You can't just resign if you don't have a replacement yet." "I'm not resigning," I replied, forcing my voice to stay calm. "I just want to make sure everything is ready." She smiled, but I knew it wasn't the smile of someone at ease. She was used to seeing me choose practicality over emotion. Used to watching me avoid decisions without a clear destination. I couldn't blame her—we were both shaped by a world that doesn't hand out second chances so easily. At the other end of the table, Papa remained quiet. He sat there as if he was always thinking about something, holding a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. "If you're sure," he finally said, slow but heavy, "make sure your resolve and your plan are solid. That's not something you change just because things get a little hard." I nodded. I was used to hearing that. My life was a series of decisions carefully thought through, saved up for, and endured. I had a boyfriend who'd known me since high school, a job that was enough to live decently, and a plan to get married at the right time. Nothing excessive, nothing devastating. For me, that was enough. "Next year," Rafael said that night as we walked home side by side, "we can start saving for the wedding." I smiled. "I'm not asking for anything grand," I said. "I just want it clear. Legal. Quiet." He laughed. "You really are something—even your wedding needs a checklist." I didn't explain to him that checklists were what gave me peace. That having a clear plan was the reason I could breathe without fear. I didn't know then that there was a part of my life I had never listed—a detail I never included, because I didn't even know it existed. That night, I went to bed at peace, fully believing my life was heading in the right direction. The next day, I returned to my normal routine as if nothing heavy was weighing on my shoulders. Waking up early, careful with time, clothes neatly arranged—everything in my life had to be in order, even exhaustion. On the bus to work, I watched people like me, all seeming to chase something unclear. Sometimes I wondered if we were all just pretending to be certain, or if I was simply too afraid to admit that even the most carefully planned life could still go wrong. "Althea, you're early again," my officemate Mara greeted as I placed my bag under the desk. "Don't you ever get tired?" I smiled, used to the question. "Being late is more tiring," I replied as I opened my laptop. "At least when I'm early, I still have control over my day." She laughed and turned away. I knew that to them, I was the woman with direction—long-term boyfriend, stable job, a plan. They didn't know that sometimes that very direction felt like a thin line between security and a cage. Around noon, Rafael called. I was already smiling when his name appeared on the screen. "Are you busy?" he asked. "Not really," I said. "Why?" "I talked to a friend about a venue," he said, his voice slightly excited. "I didn't tell you right away because I didn't want to pressure you." I fell silent for a moment—not because I didn't want to, but because I felt the weight of the word venue. "It's okay," I replied. "We can talk about it when we're both free." "Are you sure?" he asked again. "I don't want you to think I'm rushing you." "I'm just waiting for the right time," I said—and that was the truth. I didn't know when that was, but I was sure it would come. After the call, my eyes drifted to the calendar on my screen. Dates marked, deadlines, plans, expectations. There was no space for surprises—and if there ever were, I wanted to be the one to choose when. I didn't immediately notice the email that came in. It wasn't urgent, no bold subject line. Just a simple notification from HR requesting that I stop by the admin office before the end of the day. I felt no anxiety. I had no reason to. Until I was holding the envelope. "They said you have documents that need verification," the admin officer said as she handed it to me. "Looks like it's from the legal department." "Legal?" I frowned. "Is there a problem?" "I'm not sure," she replied. "It's probably best if you read it first." I didn't open the envelope right away. It felt strangely heavy, as if it didn't contain paper but decisions. I sat down, took a deep breath, then slowly pulled out its contents. A name was the first thing I saw. Whole. Complete. Below it, mine. My chest tightened. I tried to understand the words, but suddenly the language I was so used to reading felt foreign. There were dates. There was a place. There was a signature—and none of my memories. "This can't be," I whispered to myself. "This isn't possible." I held the edge of the paper as if letting go would make it disappear. But the words remained. Solid. Legal. Marriage. A word I had never included in my plans—not like this. My hands trembled as I reread the document, hoping for a mistake, a typo, some detail that would prove it wasn't about me. But every line was clear—painfully clear. For the first time in my life, I didn't know what my next step was. And that was when I first thought that maybe the life I planned—the life I believed I controlled—had long carried a secret decision made for me without my consent. I don't remember how I got home. I only knew I was already sitting inside a jeepney, still holding the envelope as if it might explode from the weight. I kept opening and closing the folder, hoping that with every look, the contents would change. But the words didn't change. My name didn't change. And the word I refused to accept didn't change either. When I opened the door, Mama immediately looked at me. She must have seen on my face that something was wrong. "What happened?" she asked, standing up at once. "Ma," I said—and that's when I noticed my voice was shaking—"I was given a paper at the office." "What kind of paper?" Papa asked from the living room. I didn't answer right away. I placed the folder on the table, afraid to press it down too hard. As if touching it too firmly would make it more real. Mama approached slowly and opened the document. As she read, the color gradually drained from her face. "Althea..." she whispered. "Ma," I said quickly, "tell me there's something wrong with that. Tell me that isn't me." She was silent. Too silent. "Ma," I repeated, louder now. "Tell me." Papa sat down. Slow. Heavy. As if he already knew the answer before reading it. "Child," he finally said without looking at me, "did you know about this?" I shook my head. "No. I'm only seeing this now. I didn't know something like this existed." Mama gripped the edge of the table. "This shouldn't be like this," she said, as if speaking to herself. "This shouldn't be like this." "What do you mean?" I asked. "Ma, what do you mean?" They looked at each other—and that was when I truly felt afraid. "Where's Grandpa?" I asked. "I want to talk to him." Papa didn't answer right away. "He's resting," he said. "But... you need to talk to him." Need. Not can. Need. I went up to my room and shut the door, but no matter how tightly I closed it, it wasn't enough to keep the weight out. I sat on the bed, holding my phone, staring at Rafael's name on the screen. I called him. "Althea?" he answered immediately. "Are you okay?" "Raf," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, "can I see you later?" "Did something happen?" he asked seriously. "Yes," I said. "And I don't know how to say it." "Where are you?" he asked. "I'll come to you." "Not yet," I said quickly. "Just give me a little time." He was silent for a moment. "Okay," he said. "I'm here." After ending the call, I held my head in my hands. All my plans—the wedding, the timing, being ready—suddenly felt meaningless. How could I explain to the man I loved that I was already married to someone else? How could I explain that I didn't choose it, but it was legal? There was a knock on the door. "Child," Mama's voice said. "Your grandfather wants to talk to you tomorrow." Tomorrow. A word that used to be ordinary. Now, it felt like a sentence. I lay down, staring at the ceiling, holding the paper against my chest as if I wanted to crush it—but couldn't. For the first time, I wasn't sure who I was in the eyes of the world—girlfriend, daughter, granddaughter... or wife. And I feared that question more than any answer. I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, the paper returned—the signature, the date, the word I kept running from. I kept telling myself there had to be an explanation, logic, a way to return everything to how it was. But with every breath, the feeling grew deeper—that something had been taken from me, something I hadn't even realized I had given. I woke up early—earlier than usual. The house was quiet, but the air was heavy. I went downstairs and saw Mama in the kitchen, sitting there, holding a cup of coffee she didn't seem to be drinking. "Ma," I said softly, "is Grandpa awake?" She looked at me. Her eyes were swollen—clearly she hadn't slept either. "Yes," she said. "He's out back, by the window." I nodded, even though I felt completely unprepared. No one is ever prepared for a conversation like this. Grandpa was there, sitting on his old chair, staring out at the yard that hadn't changed in years. He seemed frozen in time. He didn't turn right away when he sensed my presence. "Come closer," he said slowly but clearly. I sat in front of him, holding the folder like evidence of a crime I didn't commit. "Grandpa," I said, trying to steady my voice, "I want to hear from you why something like this exists." I handed him the document. He didn't take it immediately. He looked at me first—direct, heavy—like he was measuring how much I could handle. "That's been there a long time," he finally said. "Before you started working. Before you loved anyone." "That's not an answer," I said, braver than I felt. "You can't just say 'a long time,' Lo. This is my life." He sighed. "I did it to make sure you'd be secure." "Secure where?" I asked, almost whispering. "With whom?" "With a man who won't leave you," he said. "With a family that can protect you even when I'm gone." Something struck my chest. "You didn't ask me," I said. "You didn't give me a choice." "I asked you," he replied immediately. "You just didn't understand back then." I shook my head. "Grandpa, I was a child. Whatever you say, that wasn't consent." He fell silent, as if it were the first time he'd heard that word used this way between us. "Do you know who that man is?" he asked. "No," I answered, my voice finally breaking. "And that's my problem." I stood up, feeling like the space was too small for all my anger and fear. "I have a boyfriend," I added. "We already have plans. I have a life I'm building." "I know," he said. "But the law—" "Don't use the law against me," I cut in. "Because I am the law of my own life." He didn't answer, and in that silence, I felt the full weight of what he'd done. I walked out into the yard, breathing deeply, afraid that if I didn't fight the air, I'd disappear. I took out my phone and saw Rafael's missed calls. I couldn't answer yet. I couldn't be the reason his world fell apart. And that was when I first felt a question more painful than all the rest: What if being legal is stronger than everything I believed was right?