My Husband Buys Chicken Every Day, But All He Brings Home to Us Is Liver and Gizzards—Until One Day, I Learned Another Family Was Eating Whole Chickens

My husband buys chicken every day.

But in ten years, I have never tasted meat.

He only brings home liver, gizzards, hearts, and intestines to my son and me.

And what hurts more?

The whole chicken… not for us.

“You need to eat a lot, Mira,” Carlo said as he carefully placed the freshly cooked liver and balunbalunan on my plate. “You too, Gabbie. You and your mother need to get some nutrition.”

I looked at him as we sat at our small table in our apartment in Quezon City.

His face was tired. His shirt was sweaty. He was slightly hunched over while chewing rice with just soy sauce.

“Why don’t you have anything to eat?” I asked.

He smiled, that smile I had always held onto during our ten years together.

“I’m okay. I’m still full at the office. I don’t have a lot of income right now, but someday, I’ll be able to buy you something better. For now, this is all I can afford.”

It felt like something warm had spread across my chest.

I felt sorry for him.

I love him even more.

I took a piece of liver and brought it closer to his plate.

“Eat too, Carlo.”

He shook his head immediately.

“No. That’s yours. You’re the ones I need to take care of.”

That night, I almost cried with tenderness. I thought, this is how a good husband loves—putting his family first even if he himself has nothing left.

So even though I was often short on money, even though I wore old clothes, even though I had to patch up the budget several times for rent, electricity, water, tuition, and Gabbie’s allowance, I didn’t complain.

I have a loving husband.

My son has a father.

We have a home.

Or that’s what I thought.

Until one afternoon, while Gabbie and I were on our way home from school, we stopped by the market in Kamuning to buy vegetables.

Someone called my name.

“Hey, Mira! Is that you?”

I turned around.

Aling Nena, the old chicken seller on the side of the market, smiled and waved at me while holding a large chicken.

“I didn’t recognize you right away. Your son is so big!”

I forced a smile. “Yes, Aling Nena. It’s Gabbie.”

We approached his place. The surroundings smelled of raw meat, ice, and the market.

He suddenly laughed.

“You’re lucky to have a husband, hija. He buys me a whole chicken every day. He always makes me chop it into small pieces. He said his wife has a weak body and doesn’t know how to butcher. Carlo is very loving.”

It felt like cold water had been poured all over my body.

I stopped.

“Whole… chicken?”

“Of course. Sometimes another one and a half when there’s someone at home. He even chooses the fat one. He doesn’t like the small one.”

My throat tightened.

Gabbie looked at me slowly.

“Mama,” he whispered, “aren’t we just eating the entrails?”

I couldn’t answer.

He is right.

In our house, there are no chicken thighs.

No wings.

No chest.

There is no soup with meat.

Pure liver, heart, gizzards and sometimes intestines.

I forced myself to smile at Aling Nena even though my fingers were shaking.

“Which Nena, do you only sell the entrails?”

His forehead furrowed.

“The heart? No, hija. Usually I just throw it away or give it away. But Carlo, he always takes it after buying a whole chicken. He says it’s a waste.”

I felt like I was deaf.

He takes the entrails.

Bringing it home to us.

The flesh… where is it being taken?

“Which Nena,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “can we add each other on Messenger? When Carlo buys again, please message me. I just want to know so I can prepare other vegetables.”

He had no idea that my world had collapsed.

“Sige, hija.”

When we got home, I couldn’t speak.

I put Gabbie in her room, gave her bread and milk. I stroked her hair until she fell asleep.

Then, I stood in the kitchen and stared at the stove.

For years I believed that we were just suffering.

For years I praised my husband, saying that not eating the dish was a “sacrifice.”

For years I fed my son leftover chicken parts while other people ate real meat.

Carlo arrived before dark.

“Look, I’m home.”

He entered with a plastic bag. Smiling. Gentle. As if innocent.

He placed the familiar bag on the table.

It’s just a matter of time.

He came over and hugged me from behind.

“I missed you.”

Someday, I will melt into that voice.

Now, I want to throw up.

Suddenly my cell phone rang.

Message from Aling Nena.

“8 kilos, ₱1,600. Same as usual. Your husband just bought it. He brought it.”

Includes three laughing emojis.

I’m closed.

Eight kilos.

While Gabbie and I are a bag of guts.

Carlo’s cellphone rang. He answered from the balcony, his voice low.

When he returned, he pretended to be sad.

“Love, I have to get back to the office. There’s an emergency with the project. I’m really sorry.”

I stared at him.

He was still wearing his jacket. He hadn’t taken off his clothes yet. He hadn’t washed himself yet. It was as if he had rushed home just to leave behind a bag and an alibi.

“Okay,” I said.

His face softened.

He came over and kissed me on the forehead.

“I’m so lucky to have you, Mira. I promise, after this project, we’ll go on vacation. Even if it’s just Tagaytay for now.”

I nodded.

I don’t know how I managed not to slap him.

After closing the door, I grabbed the car keys.

I followed him.

From Quezon City, he headed straight to a quiet and expensive subdivision in Pasig. He stopped in front of a modern townhouse with a light at the gate and a small garden.

He got out of the car.

In his hand, he was carrying a large bag of chicken, vegetables, fruit, and a box of cake.

He doesn’t walk like that when he comes home to us.

There, his shoulders were light.

There, he smiled like a child eager to go home.

The door opened.

A woman came out wearing a fitted dress, neatly curled hair, and red lips.

I know him.

It’s Bianca Villanueva.

Carlo’s former classmate in high school.

The woman in the old photo that I once saw in her cabinet.

Back then, I was jealous.

Carlo just laughed at me, then tore up the photo in front of me.

“This is gone,” he said then. “You are my wife.”

But one night, I saw him putting the torn photo back together and hiding it in a box.

I forgave him.

Because I love him.

Because I thought it was just a memory.

Now, I saw Bianca hugging him.

I saw him bend down and kiss her cheek.

I saw him take out a red rose from inside his jacket, like a young man still courting.

And before I could breathe, a boy ran out of the house.

“Daddy!”

Carlo picked her up, spun her in the air and kissed her on the forehead.

“Son! How is my prince?”

I covered my mouth.

The pain is no longer just jealousy.

It’s like a knife being repeatedly turned inside my chest.

He has a child.

He has a house.

He has a family.

And Gabbie and I?

He feeds us the chicken waste.

All the years flashed through my mind.

The nights he says are overtime.

The bonuses that never arrived.

The days he couldn’t pick up Gabbie because he had a meeting.

The P6,000 he gives me every month while I take care of the entire house using my salary.

I was shaking when I went home.

When I arrived, Gabbie was asleep, hugging her stuffed rabbit.

I sat on the edge of his bed and cried silently.

Not strong.

Not hysterical.

That cry that feels like you’re trying not to wake up your child while your entire being is being crushed.

The next day, I didn’t confront him.

Not yet.

I opened the laptop.

I accepted my company’s long-standing offer to become a branch manager in Cebu. I turned it down several times because I didn’t want to affect Carlo’s job and Gabbie’s studies.

Now, I have no reason to stay.

I also called Atty. Lira Santos, my college friend.

“Lira,” I said, “I need a divorce—if not an annulment, legal separation, whatever the strongest case is. And I need to know how much money he stole from the conjugal funds.”

He didn’t ask many questions anymore.

“Send all the bank records.”

That’s where the real collapse of my illusion began.

In Carlo’s salary account, he earns almost ₱95,000 every month.

To me, he gives ₱6,000.

To Bianca?

₱55,000 per month.

There is a separate one for the boy’s tuition, groceries, condo dues, checkups, birthday parties, salons, jewelry, and cash transfers with the note:

“Family expenses.”

Family.

That’s not us.

A few days later, I received the draft agreement.

At the same time, Gabbie’s adviser called.

“Mrs. Reyes, please go to school. Gabbie got into a fight with her classmate.”

I took the evidence folder and went immediately.

When I entered the faculty room, I saw Gabbie in the corner, her eyes red.

In the other seat, there was Bianca.

Next to him was the boy I saw in the townhouse.

He hugged her like she was the queen of a family that wasn’t his.

I approached Gabbie.

“Son, what happened?”

He replied crying, “Mama, he called you a hooker. He said you were the one who ruined their family. He said I was the son of a bad woman.”

I looked at the child.

He grinned.

“Hang on! Hang on! Gabbie’s mom hangs on!”

Before I could speak, Bianca stood up.

“My son is not lying,” he said coldly. “If you are truly a legal husband, call your wife. Let’s see if she comes.”

The whole room was silent.

I took my cell phone.

I called Carlo.

Two rings.

He lowered it.

Bianca smiled.

“There. See?”

She took out her cellphone and called the contact listed: “Hubby.”

Just one ring.

Answered immediately.

“Love?”

Bianca’s voice softened.

“Daddy, we’re at school. This woman is fighting with our daughter. Come to us.”

I heard Carlo’s voice.

“Wait for me. I’m on my way.”

He arrived in less than twenty minutes.

When the door opened, he saw me first.

He stopped.

His face turned white.

“My… Look?”

Beside him, Bianca ran and clung to his arm.

“Love, tell them who your real family is.”

And there, in front of my son, his son by another woman, his teacher, and the woman he had kept a secret from me for eight years, I opened the folder in my hand.

“Carlo,” I said, “yes, of course. Tell them.”

I stared at him.

“Who is the real hooker?”

PARTE2

Carlo couldn’t speak right away.

Inside the faculty room, even the sound of the fan seemed to have stopped. Gabbie’s advisor was looking at us, confused and gradually turning pale, as if he was only now understanding that this was not a simple fight between children.

Bianca, on the other hand, clung even tighter to Carlo’s arm.

“Love,” he said, his voice shaking slightly but still trying to be brave, “why are you silent? Tell them. Tell them who your husband is.”

Carlo didn’t look at him.

He just stared at me.

On his face, I saw the fear I should have seen a long time ago. It wasn’t the fear of losing me. It was the fear that he would open up.

“Carlo,” I repeated, my voice colder, “your son is asking you. My son is asking you too. Who is the hooker?”

He looked at Gabby.

My daughter was standing next to me, her lips quivering, holding the hem of my blouse as if if she let go of it she would fall completely.

“Daddy…” he called softly.

That’s when Carlo’s face first collapsed.

“Look, this isn’t the right place—”

“Not the right place?” I interrupted. “But is this the right place for your son to call another woman your wife’s hooker? Is this the right place for them to call my son illegitimate?”

I took the first paper from the folder.

“Our marriage certificate, Carlo. We have been married for ten years. Legal. Registered. Your signature. My signature. There is a record in the PSA.”

I handed that over to the adviser.

He accepted it tremblingly.

Then, I took another set of papers.

“And these are your bank statements. You’ve been sending money to Bianca Villanueva for eight years. Sometimes ₱55,000 per month. Sometimes more. Tuition. Groceries. Condo dues. Checkups. Birthday parties. Salons. Jewelry. All noted as ‘family expenses.’”

Bianca’s grip on Carlo tightened.

“Carlo, why is he holding that?”

He still doesn’t answer.

So I continued.

“To me, you give ₱6,000 per month. You say we are short. You say you don’t have a bonus. You say the bills are expensive. So I pay the rent, electricity, water, school supplies, Gabbie’s medicine, our food, household items.”

I laughed softly, but there was no joy in it.

“And every day, you buy a whole chicken. You take the meat home from them. The insides, you bring to us. Then you tell your son and me, ‘You’re the ones I need to take care of.’”

The adviser swallowed.

Gabbie, crying silently.

Bianca’s boy, Nico, frowned. He didn’t understand everything, but he understood the fear on his mother’s face.

Bianca suddenly screamed.

“It’s your fault too! If you had been a good wife, Carlo wouldn’t have been looking for a real home!”

I looked at him.

For days, I thought about how I would deal with him. I thought I would scream. I thought I would hit him. I thought, when I saw him, I would lose myself.

But at that moment, I was calm.

The silence of a woman who has run out of love is frightening.

“A real home?” I asked. “If your home is real, why do you have to hide it? If you are real, why does your son have to insult my son to prove it?”

His face turned red.

“Carlo told me you two have been separated for a long time.”

“Did he also say I paid for his car?” I asked. “Did he say he used our conjugal funds to pay for your townhouse? Did he say I was still his wife while he called you his wife?”

Bianca stopped.

For the first time, I also saw the brokenness in his eyes.

I don’t know if it was because he found out he was being used too, or because he was afraid of losing the luxurious life he had built with the money that was supposed to be for my son.

Carlo came to me.

“Mira, please. Let’s talk outside.”

I retreated.

“Don’t come any closer.”

“Mira…”

“You can’t get past me with a soft voice anymore, Carlo. I’m no longer the woman who will believe that you don’t eat food because you love us.”

He cried.

Whether it’s true or not, I don’t care anymore.

“I didn’t mean to get to this point,” he said.

I smiled.

“You didn’t intentionally have children with someone else? You didn’t intentionally buy chickens for them and garbage for us? You didn’t intentionally use the money we both worked so hard for?”

He fell silent.

Because he has no answer.

The adviser approached and said in a low voice, “Mrs. Reyes, I’m sorry. I don’t know the whole situation.”

I looked at him.

“I understand not knowing. But judging a mother in front of her child, no.”

He bowed.

I turned to Gabbie.

“Son, get your bag. We’re going home.”

But before we could leave, Nico suddenly spoke.

“Daddy,” he asked Carlo, “is he your son too?”

He pointed at Gabbie.

Carlo didn’t move.

Gabbie, on the other hand, looked at him, her eyes full of tears.

He waited for his father for years at school programs.

Several times he drew a family picture without Carlo because “Daddy was busy.”

Several nights he asked why his dad didn’t pick him up like other kids.

And now, he finds out that there’s a different kid who calls him Daddy every day.

“Yes,” I answered weakly to Carlo. “Gabbie is his daughter too.”

Nico stared at Gabbie.

The child is innocent. They are both victims of the adults’ lies.

But it’s not my job to fix the world that Carlo destroyed.

When we got home, Gabbie was quiet in the car.

I thought he wouldn’t speak.

But when we stopped at a red light, he suddenly said, “Mom, that’s why Daddy doesn’t come to Family Day.”

My heart feels like it’s being squeezed.

“Honey…”

“He has another family day.”

I couldn’t hold back my tears.

I squeezed his hand.

“Son, you are not the one lacking. We are not the one lacking. There are people who run away from their responsibilities, but that doesn’t mean we are not worthy of love.”

He nodded, but I knew he wouldn’t fully understand it yet.

Even I, I’m still trying to believe it.

That night, Carlo didn’t come home.

That’s right.

I changed the door lock. I packed the important documents. I took Gabbie’s school records, birth certificate, marriage certificate, bank files, receipts, screenshots, and all the evidence that Atty. Lira needed.

The next day, we met at his office in Makati.

He read the documents silently.

“Mira,” he said after a long silence, “your case is strong. This is not just simple infidelity. There is financial abuse here. There is possible dissipation of conjugal assets. If we can prove that he used your wedding money to support another family, we can go after your share and Gabbie’s.”

“I just want to get out,” I said.

“That’s right. But you’ll leave without being robbed.”

That was the first time anyone had said that to me.

For ten years, I have learned to endure. When things are difficult, I adjust. When things are lacking, I find a way. When I get tired, I tell myself that a good wife is one who never gives up.

But allowing yourself to be consumed is not love.

Sometimes, that’s just stupidity wrapped in sacrifice.

Three days later, Carlo showed up at the apartment.

He can’t get in anymore.

He knocked for a long time.

“Mira, please. Open it. Let’s talk.”

I opened the door, but left the chain lock attached.

Between the small cracks, I saw him.

Hair is disheveled. Pale. No longer has the clean, controlled aura it once had.

“Where is Gabbie?” he asked.

“Sleeping.”

“I want to see him.”

“Not now.”

He leaned against the door.

“Look, I made a mistake. I know. But I don’t want to lose you.”

I looked at him.

“You don’t want to lose us, but you leave us every day.”

He shook his head.

“That’s complicated.”

“No. It’s simple. You chose him. You chose your son. You chose to feed them chicken while your son, mine, you feed leftovers.”

He closed his eyes.

“I never thought it would be like that.”

“You didn’t think because you didn’t think about us.”

Her tears flowed.

“Bianca… she got pregnant. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared. I didn’t want to ruin us.”

“But you destroyed us every day for eight years.”

He didn’t answer anything.

I handed him the envelope.

“Ano ’to?”

“Legal papers. Read them. My lawyer will also send them to your office.”

He was confused.

“Mira, don’t. Let’s fix it. For Gabbie.”

That’s where I laughed bitterly.

“Now you remember Gabbie?”

“He is my son.”

“Yes. But you didn’t treat him like a son. You treated him like an obligation that needed to be saved.”

It felt like he had been slapped.

“That’s not true.”

“Do you know Gabbie’s favorite part of chicken?” I asked.

He fell silent.

“You don’t know. Because you never gave it to him.”

He held on to the wall.

“His favorite is chicken wings. I only found out when we ate at his classmate’s birthday party. He ate them slowly because he thought they were expensive and he wasn’t allowed to ask for more.”

That’s when Carlo finally burst into tears.

But it’s too late.

There are tears that can no longer buy forgiveness.

A week before we moved to Cebu, Gabbie and I went to a small restaurant.

I ordered a whole fried chicken.

When it arrived on the table, Gabbie stared.

“Mom, is this all ours?”

“Yes, son.”

“Even wings?”

“Especially wings.”

He took a wing, but didn’t eat it right away. He looked at me first.

“Isn’t it dear?”

I stroked her cheek.

“You don’t have to be afraid to ask for what’s rightfully yours.”

He took a bite of the chicken wing.

And there, in the middle of the simple restaurant, I cried silently.

Not just because of sadness.

But because of anger, regret, and a strange sense of relief.

It’s like for the first time, our plates are full.

Not leftovers.

No sorry.

Not a lie.

Amen.

In court and in negotiations, Carlo tried to beg. He tried to say he was just confused. He tried to pretend he loved us both.

But there is evidence that cannot be ignored.

Bank transfers.

Receipts.

Messages.

School records.

Photo of townhouse.

Proof that he used the money that was supposed to be for his legal family.

In the end, he agreed to the settlement before the scandal at his job escalated.

I got a large portion of the conjugal assets. He was forced to return the money he sent to Bianca from the funds that were supposed to be our family. Monthly support was set for Gabbie, going directly through legal channels.

I didn’t ask what happened to her and Bianca.

That’s not my story anymore.

My story began again in Cebu.

On my first day as a branch manager, I wore a new blazer that I bought with my own money. It wasn’t expensive, but as I stood in front of my new team, it felt like the most important piece of clothing I’d ever worn.

Behind my office desk, Gabbie has a drawing.

There are only two of us in the drawing.

Me and him.

There is a sun.

There is a sea.

There was a large plate of fried chicken in the middle.

Below, he wrote:

“Home is where Mama is.”

When I read that, I couldn’t speak for a long time.

Many people will ask if I have forgiven Carlo.

My answer: I don’t let him carry me anymore.

Sometimes, that’s the closest thing to forgiveness.

I no longer pursue his explanation. I no longer inquire whether he is sorry. I no longer measure my worth by how much he chose me or didn’t choose me.

I chose myself.

I chose my son.

And finally, I chose a life where we don’t have to be content with what’s left.

Message to readers:
Don’t let the love that consumes you be called sacrifice. A true family is not fed leftovers—it is protected, cherished, and chosen every day. When you see yourself and your child being treated second, remember: it is not a sin to leave. Sometimes, the greatest love is the courage to save yourself and your child from someone who has long failed to love truly.