CHAPTER FOUR: WHEN JOY IS LOUD AND WARNINGS ARE SOFT
The candles flickered gently on top of the cake, their small flames swaying with every laugh, every movement, every breath of wind that passed through the open space. Irish stood in front of it, hands clasped together, eyes shining—not from the light of the candles alone, but from the weight of the moment pressing warmly against her chest.
"Make a wish!" someone called out.
Irish closed her eyes.
She did not wish for riches, nor for ease. She wished for constancy—for the people around her to remain, for the love she felt to stay gentle, for the future to be kind enough not to undo what had been built so carefully.
When she blew out the candles, cheers erupted. Applause echoed against laughter, and for a moment, the world felt impossibly light.
Food followed—long tables filled with dishes prepared with love rather than extravagance. Grace moved from one group to another, making sure everyone had eaten, smiling as she watched Irish glow in the center of it all. Cordy stayed close but never possessive, serving food to others before himself, laughing easily with Irish's cousins and friends.
Someone turned on music.
At first, it was background noise—soft melodies accompanying conversations. Then one of Irish's friends pulled her toward the open space.
"Birthday girl, you have to dance!"
Irish laughed, shaking her head. "I don't dance."
"Yes, you do," Cordy said gently, offering his hand.
She hesitated only a second before taking it.
They danced awkwardly at first, swaying more than dancing, laughing when they stepped on each other's feet. Soon, others joined in—friends, cousins, even Grace, who waved her hands jokingly from her seat, laughing louder than Irish had heard in years.
Games followed—simple ones. Guessing games. Small dares. Friendly competitions that filled the air with teasing and laughter. Irish watched the people she loved interact with the man she loved, and her heart felt impossibly full.
Later, the karaoke machine was turned on.
Voices—some good, some painfully off-key—filled the night. A cousin sang a love song dramatically, drawing laughter and applause. A friend sang something upbeat, dragging half the group to dance along.
Grace sat beside Cordy at one point, listening quietly as others sang.
"You sing?" she asked him.
"Only when no one's listening," Cordy replied with a shy smile.
Grace chuckled. "Good. Because here, everyone listens."
Then Uncle Al stood up.
He was already smiling—that kind of smile that warned of mischief.
"Before the night ends," he said loudly, holding the microphone, "I just want to ask something."
The crowd quieted, sensing what was coming.
He looked straight at Cordy.
"So," Uncle Al said, drawing out the word with playful drama, "when will you propose?"
Laughter erupted immediately. Irish's face burned red as she covered it with her hands.
"Uncle!" she exclaimed.
Cordy laughed softly, clearly surprised but not uncomfortable. He stood, bowed his head respectfully, and took the microphone.
"Someday po, Uncle Al," he said with sincerity. "When the time is right."
There was applause, teasing whistles, and approving nods.
Grace watched closely.
Cordy did not promise soon.
He did not boast.
He did not rush the moment.
And Grace appreciated that more than anyone realized.
As the celebration slowly wound down, conversations softened. People began gathering their things, hugging goodbye, exchanging final laughter. The night air grew cooler, quieter.
Irish found herself sitting beside Grace, the noise now distant.
Her mother reached for her hand.
"You look happy," Grace said softly.
"I am," Irish answered honestly.
Grace nodded, then her voice lowered.
"I'm not against you and Cordy," she said gently. "You know that."
"Yes, Mom."
"But I hope," Grace continued, choosing each word carefully, "that you both finish your studies first. Dreams are fragile, anak. Love is beautiful—but education gives you strength even when love changes."
Irish swallowed.
"I understand," she said. "I promise."
Grace squeezed her hand. "I trust you."
Those words settled deep inside Irish—not as pressure, but as responsibility.
The next morning, they returned home, the magic of Tagaytay folding neatly into memory. Life resumed its rhythm—classes, assignments, responsibilities.
But something had shifted.
Back at school, Irish felt it immediately.
Whispers followed her in hallways. Smiles lingered longer. Friends teased her relentlessly.
"Tagaytay?"
"Surprise party?"
"Medical student boyfriend?"
She became a topic—not because she sought attention, but because love, when visible and sincere, attracts curiosity.
Some admired her.
Some envied her.
Some judged quietly.
Irish kept her head down, focused on her studies. She refused to let attention change her. She still arrived early, still studied diligently, still called her mother every night.
But even as she excelled, she felt something new—a subtle weight she could not name.
Cordy grew busier.
Graduation loomed closer for him. Hospital duties extended into nights. Messages came later. Replies shorter.
Irish told herself it was normal.
She believed love required patience.
And so she waited—obedient as ever, hopeful as always—unaware that patience, when tested too long, can quietly turn into pain.
For now, she held onto the memory of candlelight, of laughter, of a promise spoken gently.
For now, love still felt safe.
But the quiet had begun.
As the semester slowly leaned toward its end, the air around Irish began to change.
There was a certain looseness to the days—professors wrapping up lessons, classmates speaking excitedly about rest and freedom, conversations drifting toward plans instead of deadlines. Semestrial break was near, and for the first time in weeks, Irish felt like she could breathe without counting the hours between responsibilities.
Cordy noticed it too.
One evening, after days of brief messages and postponed calls, he finally asked if they could talk—really talk. Irish answered immediately, her heart lifting at the sound of his voice, even if it carried the familiar exhaustion she had grown used to.
"I know I've been busy," Cordy said, his tone sincere, almost apologetic. "Hospital duties, preparations for graduation… it feels like I blinked and lost time."
Irish smiled softly, even though he couldn't see her. "I understand."
"I don't want you to feel like I forgot you," he continued. "When the sem break comes, I want to make it up to you. I want us to have time again—real time."
Her fingers tightened slightly around her phone.
"What do you have in mind?" she asked.
There was a pause, then a hint of excitement in his voice.
"I was thinking… maybe we could go mountain hiking."
Irish blinked, surprised.
"Hiking?" she repeated.
"Yes," Cordy said, almost laughing. "Somewhere quiet. Fresh air. No schedules. Just walking, talking, and breathing for a while. I know it's not fancy, but—"
"I'd love that," Irish said quickly, her voice brighter than she intended.
She had never been hiking before. The idea of mountains, of open skies and paths untouched by crowds, stirred something in her. It sounded peaceful. Honest. A kind of rest her soul had been quietly asking for.
"I've always wanted to try," she added shyly.
Cordy smiled through the line. "Then let's do it."
That night, Irish lay awake longer than usual—not because of worry, but because of anticipation. For once, the future felt gentle again.
Still, there was one person she needed to talk to first.
The next morning, while Grace prepared breakfast, Irish sat at the table, watching her mother move around the kitchen with practiced ease. She waited until Grace poured coffee into her cup before speaking.
"Mom," Irish began carefully.
Grace glanced at her. "Yes, anak?"
"There's something I want to ask," Irish said, folding her hands together. "Semestrial break is coming, and Cordy asked if we could go mountain hiking. Just for a day or two."
Grace stopped what she was doing.
The room grew quiet.
Irish waited.
Grace did not answer immediately. She sat down across from her daughter, her expression thoughtful, unreadable. She did not say no. But she did not say yes either.
"I'll think about it," Grace finally said.
That was all.
Irish nodded, not pushing, not pleading. She knew her mother well enough to understand that silence did not mean refusal—it meant consideration.
That night, Grace lay awake longer than Irish knew.
She thought of her daughter—the obedient child, the hardworking student, the young woman standing at the edge of adulthood. She thought of Cordy—respectful, gentle, but also older, carrying a world of pressures that Irish had not yet fully tasted.
Grace was not against love.
She was afraid of consequences.
The next day, Grace received a call.
It was Cordy.
She hesitated before answering, then took a deep breath.
"Good afternoon po, Tita Grace," Cordy greeted respectfully. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"You're not," Grace replied. "How can I help you?"
"I just wanted to ask permission po," Cordy said, his voice steady but clearly careful. "I heard Irish already mentioned the hiking trip. I wanted to assure you that it's something I planned responsibly. And I wanted to hear your thoughts."
Grace closed her eyes briefly.
She appreciated this—him calling directly, not hiding behind Irish, not assuming approval.
"I will permit her," Grace said slowly, "but in one condition."
Cordy straightened instinctively, even though she couldn't see him. "Yes po?"
"She will be accompanied by her cousin, Eloisa," Grace continued. "I want her to be with you, the entire trip."
There was no hesitation.
"Yes po," Cordy answered immediately. "That's completely fine."
Grace paused, then added, "Irish is still finding her way. I trust you—but I trust my daughter's future more."
"I understand po," Cordy said sincerely. "Thank you for trusting us."
When Grace ended the call, she felt a strange mixture of relief and unease. She had placed boundaries—not walls—but boundaries all the same.
That evening, Irish was in her room when Grace knocked.
"Come in," Irish said.
Grace sat on the edge of the bed.
"I talked to Cordy," she said.
Irish's heart skipped. "And?"
"I will permit the trip," Grace said gently. "On one condition. Eloisa will go with you."
Irish's eyes widened, then softened.
"Okay," she said without hesitation. "That's okay, Mom."
Grace searched her daughter's face, looking for disappointment, for resistance. She found none—only respect.
"I trust you," Grace said. "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't," Irish promised.
When Irish told Cordy the news later that night, he laughed lightly.
"I already agreed," he said. "Your mom is right."
Irish smiled, feeling once again that familiar warmth—the feeling that love, when careful, could still be safe.
None of them knew then that this trip, planned with such care and permission, would become one of the last moments when everything still felt balanced.
For now, the path ahead looked clear.
And Irish—obedient, hopeful, and trusting—walked toward it without fear.