Danielle worked through the 21st. The rest of the workforce didn't know; they didn't need to. She was orchestrating the shift in silence, behind the scenes, and it was happening faster than anyone expected. The Customer Success team was ready to launch in January. It was all in place, and she had seen to the training of each member personally from December 17th to 21st.
She divided the flow of tickets carefully, sorted by HQ, ensuring the new team wouldn't have full access to operations yet. Instead, they'd handle a separate funnel: processed orders, a limited scope of returns, and logistics status updates. Just like her love for glass of any type, this one is a two-way glass. She sees everything and anything but they can't.
The workers wouldn't know how meticulously she planned this, how the foundation was being built. Danielle wasn't seeking praise. Her eyes were focused on the horizon, knowing full well that her moves would echo in the months ahead.
Easing into the C- 6 traffic, the holiday rush evident. Thinking back, she should have decided to travel waaaaay earlier than get stuck in traffic, Geez, its 5 AM! But, paano naman sila May.
December 17.
The day she officially finished training the remote team. It was more draining than expected, but also… surprising. Especially that last call.
She smirked a little.
"Hi, I'm sorry, do you prefer... Sir Dan?"
Danielle had raised an eyebrow. Here we go.
"Just Dan is fine," she had replied, cool but not unkind.
On-screen, Evangeline May Ruiz had blinked, clearly flustered.
"I—I thought... I was expecting someone... Spanish. Maybe a guy. You're not Spanish?"
"I get that a lot." Danielle kept a straight face.
"Honestly, my boss made you sound like this intimidating European consultant. I was rehearsing Spanish formal greetings just in case!"
"¿Hablas español? Want to test it?"
That had cracked May's defenses. She laughed, leaning back.
"No, ma'am. I mean, no, Dan. I think I like you better than the scary version in my head."
Noted. Danielle hadn't dropped her guard, not completely, but the interaction had left her... mildly amused. And reassured. May was sharp. Better, she knew when to laugh at herself.
Later that night, Danielle and Leo had danced through the living room with feather dusters, setting the stage for their tree. The air smelled faintly of pine cleaner and anticipation.
December 18.
The tree stood tall by noon, wrapped in golden ribbons and paper stars. Leo had insisted on putting up her own crafts, which included a sparkly cardboard reindeer and a weirdly-shaped angel made of old paper cups. Danielle didn't touch a thing—it was Leo's masterpiece.
While her daughter arranged the base with pretend gifts and cotton snow, Danielle was at her desk, eyes skimming across dashboards and Slack channels.
Warehouse: stable. Logistics: clearing. CS and SC queues: down by 47%.
Not bad, she thought. They're doing the work.
December 19.
Just a few days before Leo's birthday. Danielle had booked their table—private dining at Shangri-La's The Fort in SAGE. She wasn't after glitz. Just elegance and calm. A gift for Leo and her parents, wrapped in white linen and seven-course surprises.
She'd handled it all while swatting at a beast of a problem—inventory inconsistencies that refused to settle. The files looked like someone had tried to alphabetize spaghetti.
God, these files are cursed. Even Excel gave up on them.
She shook her head, fingers still typing, but her eyes drifted to Leo's drawing on the fridge—rainbow candles on a cake.
Focus on that. The rest will wait.
December 20.
A Megamall day. Her reward.
Or maybe her punishment, Danielle mused, gripping the steering wheel as the memory flashed back. Depends on the crowds.
She had braved SM Megamall with Leo, who had somehow turned into a turbocharged cart-riding elf the moment they entered the sliding doors. Christmas carols echoed across marble tiles. There were lights in every corner. Stressed-out parents, bored teens, couples in matching sweaters—the full Metro Manila pre-Christmas package.
Danielle powered through her checklist like a general in a velvet war zone:
Gardening tools for her father, who was preparing to expand his little backyard experiment into an all-out planting crusade.
Heirloom seeds from the specialty store Leo insisted smelled like "magic dirt."
Portable air conditioner, because if the next summer was anything like the last, her parents would never forgive her.
Groceries, three carts deep. One entirely dedicated to Leo's snacks.
And the tent. Oh, the tent. Purple, galaxy print, shaped like a dome, complete with twinkling string lights that Leo refused to part with. They set it up the moment they got home—beside the sofa, of course. It was now her daughter's "reading fort," "nap zone," and "top secret clubhouse," depending on the hour.
Danielle had meant to rest that day. One day, she'd told herself. Just one day without touching work.
And technically, she succeeded. She didn't open her laptop.
Her phone though?
Checked it twice. Maybe three times.
No fires. No urgent tags. Just a few updates from the remote team, moving steadily through the logistics queue.
Remote team's holding.
Good. Let's keep it that way.
She sighed into the holiday traffic, now inching its way out of Ortigas. The bags in the back seat rustled. Leo had fallen asleep mid-chew on a cookie.
And for a brief moment, Danielle let herself feel something rare—satisfaction.
A quiet day, a sleepy kid, a finished list.
Not perfect. But hers.
December 21.
The final big push before Christmas. The remote team was nearly done with their ticket queues, and Danielle had jumped in early that morning to help clear the rest. Some red flags remained, but nothing alarming.
She remembered sending the message out by lunchtime.
"If there are follow-up tickets that come in after the 25th, we'll handle them on the 26th and 27th. For now, great work everyone. Go spend the weekend with your families. If no reds show up by the 27th, then see you next year."
The replies had poured in—clapping emojis, little hearts, and tired GIFs of cartoon characters collapsing into beds.
They earned this, she thought, recalling the pride swelling in her chest. And no one needs to know how close we were to burning out the system trying to clean it all up before the holidays.
Back in the car, she adjusted her grip on the wheel and rolled her shoulders. She'd have to check in again after Christmas—quick pulse check on tickets, any flagged accounts, any hidden fires smoldering under the tree.
But for now?
Now, it was about Leo.
Now, it was about home.
-
It was nearly midnight on the 22nd when Danielle finally stopped refreshing the ticket dashboard.
Done. Or done enough.
The remote team was clear. A few stray red notes, but nothing catastrophic. They could handle those after Christmas—or the 27th, if anything slipped through. The point was—they were holding. They were ready. She didn't need to micromanage anymore.
For now.
She glanced over at the couch where Leo lay curled up, fast asleep, her breathing slow and steady beneath a soft blanket.
"Alright, little one," Danielle whispered, careful not to wake her.
With quiet efficiency, she gathered their things. Leo's clothes and essentials were already packed into two tote bags—the usual: clothes, meds, a toothbrush, snacks.
Then came the gifts for her parents.
Still stuffed in their original paper bags—some from Megamall, a few from S&N, one lumpy plastic bag from Ace Hardware. Danielle didn't bother with wrapping.
"Effort mag balot ng regalo, Leo's not awake to see either" she muttered, hefting the bags with surprising strength.
One by one, she carried the weight to the car. Tote bags, gifts, even the tent that Leo loved so much—now folded and stacked beside the sofa—were loaded into the Bronco's spacious trunk.
She moved with purpose, hauling what looked like half the apartment out the door. No fuss. No hesitation.
Back inside, she paused by her desk, eyes on the company phone and laptop she'd been tethered to all week.
Without a second thought, she slipped them into a small bag and stowed it under Leo's blanket in the car. Out of sight. Out of reach.
She wasn't paranoid. Not really. But with everything shifting so fast, she had to be smart. People noticed things—things that didn't quite fit. The car. The packages. The new team rising quietly.
It was now the 22rd. She woke Leo early. The excitement in her eyes was contagious, as always. They were heading home to Bulacan.
Her parents were now busy tending to their rice paddy, the rhythm of their hard work blending into the rural landscape. Their dog, Tammy, a ridgehound Danielle had gotten for them when they moved here, eagerly trotted along the dirt paths of their small farm.
Slowly driving into the SKYWAY, their car humming steadily along the expressway, Danielle's thoughts wandered to the past. She remembered the old Toyota Vios, the car that had served her family faithfully for so long. It had been a simple car, trustworthy and economical, perfect for the daily grind. She had given it to her parents, insisting that the convenience of Grab in the metro outweighed their need for it. They didn't mind—it was a gift from her heart, a token of her independence, and their growing security.
As the car slid through the toll booths, her thoughts drifted back to the office, to the work she left behind, to the plans she had set in motion. She'd been quiet about it, not seeking applause, not even a pat on the back. But deep down, she was proud. She was getting ready to leave a mark, one that would outlast her.
As they drove, Danielle's thoughts lingered on the recent delivery to her home. The Ford Bronco Sasquatch—a car she never asked for, yet it had arrived at her doorstep, a giant of a vehicle making an impression on the entire neighborhood. The reason why she couldn't drive the EDSA traffic, thus the SKYWAY route to Bulacan.
Who even sends a car like that to someone in a regular residential area? She scoffed internally. It wasn't exactly a casual, "hey, I bought this on Lazada" moment. The delivery truck, with its oversized cargo, had caused more than a few curious looks from the new neighbors, who were still sizing her up. Some of them were still in disbelief. It wasn't everyday a car like that, a Bronco, was dropped off by some mysterious courier. Not even Lazada or Shopee would do something like that. And the last thing she needed was their nosy eyes on her every move.
That's why, without a second thought, Danielle had left her company phone and PC in the back of the car when they left. She wasn't trusting, not with the way things were shifting now. If she wanted to keep her cards close, she'd have to play smart—and that meant leaving everything she didn't need behind for now. Who knew if any of them would start poking around, trying to get more than a friendly conversation? People were observant—especially when it came to something that didn't quite fit in. *
Her fingers gripped the steering wheel as she shook off the thought. As far as she was concerned, if they wanted to know her story, they could wait in line.
They were exiting Skyway when Leo piped up from the back seat, still wrapped in her galaxy-printed tent blanket like a sleepy burrito.
"Mama… I'm hungry."
Danielle glanced at the clock. Half past six. They hadn't really eaten since lunch—just cookies and snacks from Leo's "shopping loot." She nodded.
"Alright. Shell Balagtas?"
"Yes please!" Leo perked up instantly.
Danielle took the exit without hesitation, signaling early, her eyes scanning not just the road but everything around it—the unusual flow of cars, the silver van that had been behind them since the toll gate, the stalled motorcycle by the shoulder. Nothing screamed danger. But that didn't mean she relaxed.
She never did.
The Shell Balagtas stop was glowing with holiday lights, packed with cars, tricycles, buses pulling in and out. Christmas songs played faintly from the store speakers. It smelled like fried chicken, gasoline, and baked bread—the familiar scent of weary travelers.
Danielle parked at the far end, not too isolated, not too crowded. Easy exit. Clean sightlines.
"Come on, anak. Let's stretch our legs."
Leo bounded out first, her blanket trailing behind her like a cape. Danielle followed, slipping her phone into her back pocket, keys in one hand, pepper spray clipped quietly under her jacket's inner lining. Always close. Just in case.
As they ordered from the fast food kiosk, Danielle's eyes didn't stop moving. She wasn't paranoid—just practiced. A man lingering too long near the convenience store exit. A delivery rider whose helmet stayed on inside. The van from earlier, parking two slots away but not unloading anyone.
Neutral. Not nothing. But not something yet.
Leo tugged on her hand.
"Mama, do you want the burger or the spaghetti?"
Danielle looked down, smiled.
"You choose for me."
"Spaghetti then. Because you always pick fries off mine."
Caught.
They sat on the hood of the Bronco as they ate, the warm food filling their stomachs, the faint glow of gas station lights washing everything in soft amber.
Danielle still hadn't taken her eyes off the van.
But it left, eventually. Nothing happened. Just another traveler on a long December road.
Still, as they drove away, she looped back onto NLEX with her guard up, one hand on the wheel, the other ready to reach.
She didn't survive all this by being careless.
And she wasn't about to start now.