Chapter 10: The Woman, the Will, and What She’ll Never Fully Know

Honey never asked for a will. She never begged for inheritance. She never once demanded anything in writing.

But Stephen knew the truth: She needed protection more than she could admit. Not just from the world — but from her own family, from the people around her who had taken so much already.

So he did what he always did: He stepped in, silently, with love that looked like paperwork.

It started with small things. He made sure she’d get the monthly Social Security benefits when he passed — ₱90,000 per month for her and the kids.

Then the life insurance. $300,000. Set aside not because she asked for it — but because he wanted to make sure no one else ever left her broke again.

He told his attorney, clearly:
“Ten percent of everything else goes to her.”

They said,
“Even though you’re not married?”

He nodded.
“She was my wife in everything but law.”

He wasn’t being poetic. He was being exact.

Because for Stephen, love wasn’t about paper. It was about presence. About who held your hand in sickness, who stood by when you were broke, who remembered your birthday even when she said she didn’t love you anymore.

But he also knew something harder: She would never know the full weight of what he gave.

Not the 70,000 dollars sent quietly over eight years. Not the times he paid tuition, electricity, groceries, bailouts, or birthday cakes. Not the way his mother stepped in to pay off his debts — just so Honey wouldn’t feel the burden.

She would never know the hours spent planning a future she hadn’t even said yes to. The nights of syncope and seizure where he clung to the thought of her face. Or the fact that he sometimes skipped his own meds — just to be able to send a few thousand pesos to her before school started.

But maybe… that’s how love is supposed to be. Not kept in tally marks. Not measured in thank-yous. Just given. Fully. Freely. Faithfully.

One day, when he’s gone, someone will hand her an envelope. Maybe a lawyer. Maybe Sheri. Maybe a stranger.

And in that envelope will be the documents. The account numbers. The life insurance details. The signed will.

And she will realize:
He kept loving her — even when she couldn’t love herself.

Stephen didn’t do it to be remembered. He did it so that, when the world got loud again, she’d have something that couldn’t be erased.

A legal reminder of something sacred.
Someone saw her.
Believed in her.
Prepared for her.

And maybe — just maybe — on that day, she’ll whisper the one thing she never said out loud when he was alive:
“I know what you did for me.”