Leo twirled barefoot across the living room floor, her pajama top riding up as she spun and sang her own off-key version of "Happy Birthday to me." She stopped mid-turn, catching her breath just long enough to ask if there would be balloons, and if Rian could bring his robot.
From the couch, Danielle looked up from her phone, where an email confirming tomorrow's reservation had just arrived. Yes to balloons. Yes to Rian. No robots at the table. That got a small pout and a dramatic sigh from the birthday girl, followed by a giggle.
She crossed off the last item on her list with a quiet sense of satisfaction. Four. Her baby was turning four. The restaurant had confirmed: private room, 5 PM. Kid-friendly menu, done. She checked it all again anyway. Just in case.
Back in Bulacan, the animals had been fed and were settling into the soft warmth of a late December morning. A wiry man in a straw hat leaned against a wooden post, texting from an old Nokia phone with a keypad worn down by habit.
All good here. Go enjoy, Uncle and Auntie. –Tony.
No one outside their circle knew that Tony had been quietly absorbed into Horizon's ecosystem months ago. His pay didn't come in envelopes anymore—it came through a system optimized for subtlety, under a project marked Family Ops.
In the front seat of their old Vios, Danielle's mother smiled as she read the message. "It's a good thing to bring the coconut jam. Dani always liked that." "And the mangoes," her husband added, glancing in the rearview mirror. Leo's favorite. The boxes were already packed. Her father had reviewed the route twice, just in case.
In Antipolo, laundry hung in the kitchen doorway like prayer flags. Danielle was folding clothes, a quiet rhythm she didn't mind, when her phone buzzed.
We're good for tomorrow. Rian's already dressed up, in case you were wondering.
She let out a soft laugh. It's still the 27th.
Birthdays are a season, the voice on the other end replied. Like Christmas. Can we bring a gift?
There was a pause. How do you say no to someone who lives in a world of monogrammed towels and imported lunchboxes?
Something small, please.
Evening settled gently over their home, the golden light outside fading into a soft, dusty blue. Leo sat at the coffee table, drawing crooked balloons on Manila paper with a pink crayon nearly worn to the nub. Danielle sat nearby, stitching the hem of a simple white dress with pink ribbon at the collar.
Will Grandma and Grandpa sleep here? Leo asked, her voice soft and hopeful.
"Yes, they'll be here soon," Danielle replied, her eyes still focused on her careful stitching. "And we'll all have cake."
That was all Leo needed to hear. She leaned into her mother's side and resumed coloring with fresh focus. Danielle bent her head back to her sewing, her fingers moving carefully through fabric she couldn't afford to mess up.
Earlier that day, Danielle had found the perfect lilac ruffled dress for Leo's birthday — soft, delicate, and full of lightness, just like her daughter. The dress had been a small celebration in itself, a tangible promise that the coming year held more moments to cherish.
After putting Leo to bed, Danielle moved to her closet. She reached for a set of casual trousers and blazers in royal blue — pieces she'd bought just before Christmas but had barely worn until now. Alongside them, a pair of simple stilettos waited patiently. Each item felt like a step toward a new version of herself, a quiet embrace of change.
It's almost like a different person, she thought, smoothing her fingers over the fabric. But then she realized — it wasn't someone else. It was her. The Danielle who had shed the weight and gained more energy, the Danielle committed to a healthier life so she could stay longer for Leo, for her parents, for the life they were building together.
Her body felt lighter, her spirit steadier. The changes were subtle but real. She was growing, adapting, becoming the woman who could hold all the pieces of her world — with grace and strength.
Outside, the breeze moved through the trees. Inside, there was only the hush of crickets, the scent of handwashed cotton, and the quiet promise of something beautiful just over the horizon.
Just after 8 p.m., the quiet hum of a Toyota Vios turning into the driveway stirred Danielle from her thoughts. She stood up from the couch, brushing crumbs from her faded black hoodie — the same one she wore during late shifts and early morning calls. Her white denim shorts were fraying slightly at the edges, a reminder of how far she'd come, and how little she cared now for appearances when the people she loved most were on their way.
The streetlamp caught the gleam of the car's hood as it rolled to a gentle stop. The headlights cut, and her parents stepped out — her mother with a tub of food cradled in her arms, her father easing his back from the long drive up from Bulacan.
Danielle met them at the door with a tired smile. No words — just a long embrace and the soft press of her mother's cheek against hers.
Leo had fallen asleep in their room. Danielle led them in quietly, a finger to her lips. Her parents paused, gazing at the small, sleeping girl — the miracle at the center of all of this. They didn't speak. Her father simply nodded once, as if in silent thanks.
Dinner was quiet — reheated sinigang, leftover adobo, and rice warm from the pot. Nothing fancy, but it didn't need to be. For the first time in a long while, Danielle wasn't a boss, or a mother, or a partner. She was just their daughter again.
And something in that stillness — the clink of utensils, her father pouring water, her mother offering more rice — felt like the early 2000s. Her dad coming home from the municipal engineering office. Her mom returning from teaching English at the elementary school. And her, freshly back from high school, dropping her bag and sitting down like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
But tonight, it wasn't ordinary.
It was a quiet celebration, unspoken but understood. Their daughter was still here. She had carried life — carried Leo — and survived. This simple meal was a testament not just to survival, but to the quiet, stubborn joy of enduring.
No candles. No toasts.
Just three people at the table, and the sleeping child who made it all worthwhile.
The next morning, Leo running and screaming towards the hallway and trotting down the stairs. "It's my birthdaaaay!" Leo tore through the hallway barefoot, curls wild and tangled from sleep, her oversized shirt flapping around her knees like a cape. Socks mismatched, she slid across the floor, arms flung wide, a human firework exploding into the day.
"Check the laundry basket," Danielle called out from the kitchen, still half-drowsy, balancing a mug of coffee in one hand. "And no running—"
A loud pop cut her off.
"—on the balloons," she finished with a sigh.
Her mom fixing the table for brunch, with her grandma. All while Dan's father is checking the house, the garden, noting that all the vegetables are growing well because of the cooler climate.
Danielle let herself lean against the kitchen doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, shorts still creased from sleep. The hoodie was one of her oldest—faded black, almost gray in some places, a ghost from her old work site days—and the white denim shorts were rarely worn, too soft, too bare for who she used to be.
"Mama," Leo tugged at her hem, her face upturned and bright, "can Lola bathe me today?"
Danielle blinked at her, then nodded with a small, knowing smile. "Go ahead. She's yours today."
She watched Leo dash off again, calling for her grandmother, and let the moment settle around her like sunlight. Her parents had slept in the spare bedroom—well, the only bedroom—after arriving the night before just past eight. Leo had already been asleep, curled up in a tiny ball under the sheets.
She hadn't changed into anything fancy yet - they have time. This is one of the things she realized after working for horizon. After she leveraged her time, she slowly gained financial stability. Now, she leveraged her financial stability for her time. Her time for her family.
Danielle knelt beside Leo's small bed, pulling the soft lilac dress from the hanger. She had spotted it weeks ago, the moment it caught her eye in the store—ribbons and ruffles so delicate they seemed spun from dreams. For days, she'd kept it carefully folded away, a secret waiting for today.
"Ready, sweetheart?" she asked softly.
Leo's eyes sparkled as Danielle slipped the dress over her head, smoothing the fabric gently. The ruffles swirled like clouds around her daughter's knees, the tiny ribbon tied neatly at the back.
Danielle smiled as she fastened the little white princess flats, new and gleaming, on Leo's feet. She added a delicate bracelet—shiny, simple jewelry, a quiet touch of celebration.
Downstairs, the faint sound of laughter drifted up. Danielle knew her parents were dressed in the clothes she'd gifted them last Christmas—their smiles reflected in the warmth of the moment.
She breathed in deeply, a steady calm settling in her chest. The years of struggle, the sleepless nights, the endless worries—they all seemed to fold into this small, perfect space where Leo twirled in her dress, the promise of birthdays yet to come shimmering in her eyes.
Danielle stepped out of the bath, the cold rush of air from the dryer brushing against her damp, long hair as she let it fall loose. She was already dressed in the royal blue trousers she had picked out and a small ribbed halter tank that nestled just above her midriff, the first real glimpse of her changing self.
In the corner of the room stood the new mirror they'd bought earlier that morning—a request from her mom, who had gently asked why their home had no mirrors. Danielle had smiled to herself, thinking, I'm not vain, sis.
She moved closer, studying her reflection carefully. The arms she once remembered—strong and broad from site work—were now slimmer, more delicate. Her thighs had thinned out too, but there was loose skin here and there, a reminder of the weight she'd lost over months of grinding hard. Stretch marks mapped her journey across her sides, faint but unmistakable.
"Nothing major," she whispered to her reflection, fingers tracing the soft skin. "More skin tightening, I think."
Her mind drifted to Allyza—always resourceful, always a step ahead. She made a mental note to ask her about cosmetic procedures later. This new body was hers, but it was also a work in progress, just like everything else in her life now.
Danielle sat in front of the small vanity mirror, eyeing the assortment of makeup like it was a foreign language. Her fingers hovered uncertainly over the eyeliner pencil. Winged eyeliner? She considered it. Dramatic, but... maybe a little too much for me. After a moment's hesitation, she made a bold, careful flick—then immediately softened it with a cotton swab, leaving just a subtle line instead. "Baby steps," she muttered with a smirk.
Her once-puffed cheeks had slimmed down, now sculpted into delicate cheekbones that caught the soft light. Her jawline was sharper, framing the small button nose that perfectly complemented her heart-shaped face. Danielle applied a minimal skincare routine—a light dab of tinted sunscreen to protect without hiding her natural glow, a gentle sweep of soft peach blush warming her cheeks, and a sheer lip tint that gave her lips a fresh, dewy flush.
Last came a quick flick of mascara, framing her warm amber almond eyes just enough to highlight their glow without overpowering. Sitting back, she gave herself a quiet smile in the mirror. Soft girl era, she thought. Definitely soft girl era.
Danielle slid her feet into the nude stilettos, wobbling just slightly before finding her balance. She grinned at herself—still getting used to these heels. Draping the royal blue blazer over one arm, she grabbed her new bag, carefully packed with her work laptop, phone, and the iPad Leo used for fun (which Danielle hadn't touched since she had her phone). Nestled inside was also her brand-new Instax camera, ready to capture moments from the day.
With one last glance in the mirror, Danielle straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and headed down the stairs—ready to step fully into this new chapter.
Just as Danielle reached the bottom of the stairs, she instinctively pulled out her phone to snap a quick picture of herself and Leo—the two of them, ready for the big day. She smiled at the screen, angling it perfectly for a selfie.
Unbeknownst to her, it wasn't her personal phone she'd pulled out, but the Horizon-issued device. And the cloud backup synced every photo automatically. Somewhere else, Axel had instant access to this unexpected glimpse of their day.