Carrying my Godfather's Children (English)

Lina I covered my ears the moment their yelling started—sharp, furious, and followed by the crashing sound of something breaking into pieces inside their bedroom. Another fight. Another storm behind that door. And when it's all over, they'll walk away, leaving the wreckage for me to clean up. "You're so narrow-minded!" Tita Gilda screamed as she burst from the room, dragging a suitcase behind her, her heels clacking angrily across the floor. I quickly hid by the kitchen doorway. "Don't make a fool out of me, Gilda! I'm a man—I know what I saw!" I saw Ninong Desmond storm out of the room, his voice thundering. "You have no proof of the accusations you keep throwing at me!" Tita Gilda snapped, rushing down the stairs with her suitcase, clearly struggling under its weight. Leaving again? "And where the hell are you running off to now? Back to that bastard?!" "How many times do I have to tell you? There's no other man! I'm going to work! How could I possibly be cheating when I can't even have children anymore?" With that, Tita Gilda stepped out and slammed the front door behind her. A loud banging from upstairs made me look up—Ninong Desmond was at the top of the stairs, furiously punching the wall. "Ninong!" I rushed up to him. He stopped. Breathing hard. His forehead rested against the wall, as though he were trying to hold himself together. "T-That's enough, Ninong. Your hand is bleeding..." I said softly. His knuckles were red, and sweat was trickling down the sides of his face and neck. "Just clean up the mess inside," he murmured, not even turning to look at me. "Y-Yes, I'll go get something to clean it. I'll treat your wound too." I rushed downstairs and grabbed the broom and trash can from the kitchen. I also took the first aid kit from the cabinet before heading back upstairs. But Ninong Desmond was no longer at the top of the stairs. I looked around, and there he was—standing by the mini bar near the balcony on the second floor. I placed the broom and trash can off to the side. He always went there after a fight with Tita Gilda. That mini bar had become his quiet escape. According to him, it had always been like that—even before I ever moved into this house. He told me that himself, as a warning. So I wouldn't be shocked when the chaos started repeating, again and again. It's only been a month since I started living in their house here in Marikina. I came from Quezon Province. My father had just passed away from a heart attack, and Ninong Desmond returned to Quezon to attend the wake. He was originally from there as well, back when his mother was still alive. He and Papa were good friends. I no longer have a mother either—she left us when I was just two years old. Now, I'm eighteen. I had nowhere else to go. Our relatives back in the province couldn't take me in either—life is hard for them too. That's why Ninong offered to bring me with him to Manila. He promised to support me and send me to college next year. I trust him. He and Papa were very close friends. At thirty-six, Ninong Desmond has spent six years in a marriage haunted by one painful void—a child that never came. Almost every night, I hear the same fight echoing from their room. It's always about the same thing. He's been longing for a child. Praying for it. But Tita Gilda hasn't been able to give him one. And maybe that's the only piece missing to save their crumbling marriage. "Ninong..." I entered the mini bar slowly. He was there, hunched over the counter, a glass in one hand, a bottle in front of him. He looked so still, so heavy with silence. But what caught my eye was his clenched fist—his right hand. It was bleeding, fresh, and angry. "I-I'll treat your wound," I said, placing the first aid kit on the counter, my voice barely above a whisper. Without another word, I turned and walked back to my room. I filled a dipper with warm water from the bathroom and returned to the mini bar. Quietly, I began washing the blood off Ninong's injured hand. He finally looked up, his gaze resting on me. "It'll heal," he said, his voice low and tired. "It might get infected," I whispered, continuing to clean the wound with care. He didn't respond. He poured another glass of liquor and drank it down. Not even a hint of discomfort crossed his face despite the burn of the alcohol. He was striking. You'd never guess he was already in his mid-thirties. Tall, with a strong, athletic body. I often saw the outline of his abs—eight firm ridges. He worked out every day in the home gym at the back of the house. I'd pass by there often while cleaning... and I couldn't help but glance. After washing the wounds on his hand, I applied ointment and gently covered them with a bandage. "There, all done, Ninong. That should heal soon," I said softly. I looked up at him, only to realize he was already staring at me. His eyes were slightly glazed, filled with misery. "Is something wrong, Ninong? Do you want to talk?" I said quietly. "Maybe it's just work. Maybe Tita Gilda needs some space. She'll come back." I packed away the bandages and ointment into the small bag. "Have you ever had a boyfriend?" he asked out of nowhere. "Pardon?" I turned to him, a little stunned. "You're a young woman now. I'm sure someone's fallen for you by now." I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me. "W-Well... there are a few suitors, but... I haven't given much thought to being in a relationship. Maybe I just haven't met anyone I like." He didn't say anything. He just kept looking at me. "I'd rather finish school first, Ninong, before I think about having a boyfriend—" "What if I offer you something?" he interrupted. I froze and looked straight at him. He reached out and held my hand, pulling me closer to him. He was sitting on the spinning bar chair, but even then, he was still taller than I. "W-What do you mean by offer? What are you offering me?" I asked, confused. I didn't understand why, but my heart suddenly started beating faster as the space between us closed. I could smell his cologne—pleasant, familiar—but now mixed with the scent of alcohol. He reached for my other hand and held it, his fingers wrapping around mine with a quiet intensity. Then, he raised his hand and caressed my cheek, slowly, tenderly. That's when I saw it—his eyes on my lips. "Bear my child..." he said, low and serious. I froze. My world tilted for a second as my chest tightened, and my heart slammed against my ribs. "W-What?" "That's what I'm asking you... Can you grant it? Bear my child, Lina..." "N-Ninong..."