Irish learned obedience before she learned courage.
It was not the kind that came from fear, nor the stiff obedience born of punishment. Hers was shaped gently—by quiet mornings, folded laundry still warm from the sun, and a mother whose love was firm but never loud. Grace raised her alone, and because of that, Irish learned early that love could be both soft and unbreakable.
They lived in a small house that carried the smell of brewed coffee and old books. It was not grand, but it was full—full of prayers whispered before sleep, full of reminders scribbled on scrap paper taped to the refrigerator, full of sacrifices that Grace never named aloud.
Grace was not perfect, but she was present.
She worked long hours, sometimes coming home with tired eyes and aching hands, yet she never forgot to ask, "Kumusta ang araw mo, anak?" How was your day, my child? And Irish always answered honestly, because her mother deserved truth.
Irish grew up watching Grace become both mother and father, both comfort and discipline. There were no dramatic lectures, no shouting matches that shook the walls. Instead, there were conversations—long ones—spoken over dinner or while washing dishes side by side.
"Respect yourself," Grace would say while rinsing plates.
"Study well," she reminded while folding uniforms.
"Love should never make you forget who you are," she whispered during nights when Irish struggled to sleep.
And Irish listened.
She was the kind of daughter teachers praised quietly, the kind neighbors trusted instinctively. She woke early without complaint, finished her homework before dinner, and never raised her voice even when emotions threatened to overflow. Obedience came naturally to her—not because she was afraid to disappoint, but because she understood how much it cost Grace to give her a good life.
School was where Irish shone brightest.
In high school, she was not the loudest student nor the most popular, but she was consistent. Diligent. Focused. Her notebooks were neat, her deadlines always met. She stayed after class not because she was required to, but because learning made her feel capable—like she was building something solid within herself.
When graduation came, Irish stood on stage with honors draped over her shoulders. Grace cried quietly in the audience, pressing a hand to her mouth as if trying to keep her heart from bursting. She did not shout her daughter's name. She did not wave wildly.
She simply watched—with pride so deep it hurt.
That night, Grace hugged Irish longer than usual.
"You did well," she said. "Not just in school. In life."
Irish smiled, resting her head on her mother's shoulder, believing then that success was simple: work hard, obey wisely, and love carefully.
College came soon after.
Irish was young for her year, but she carried herself with maturity earned through responsibility. She chose a course she believed would help secure their future, not one that merely excited her. Grace supported her decision, though she often reminded Irish not to forget joy in the pursuit of stability.
College was different—bigger, louder, more tempting.
There were classmates who skipped classes without guilt, who stayed out late and lived recklessly as if consequences were optional. Irish watched them from a distance, curious but unmoved. She still called her mother every night. She still went home early. She still said no when invitations crossed lines she was not ready to step over.
"Study first," she would say apologetically.
"Maybe next time," she smiled, even when she knew there would be no next time.
And still, she excelled.
Her professors noticed her quiet brilliance, her discipline, her respect. She earned recognition not through ambition alone, but through consistency. She was becoming someone—slowly, carefully, the way Grace had taught her.
Love was not something Irish searched for.
She believed love would come when it was meant to, that it would arrive gently and respectfully, not like a storm that destroyed everything in its path. Grace often warned her, "Not all attention is love. And not all love is safe."
Irish took those words seriously.
So when love finally stepped into her life, it did not arrive with fireworks.
It arrived on an ordinary night.
A birthday.
The celebration was small—held in a modest restaurant with dim lighting and mismatched chairs. Irish had almost declined the invitation, citing an early class the next day, but Grace encouraged her to go.
"You can rest tomorrow," her mother said with a smile. "Life happens too."
The birthday celebrant was a common friend—someone Irish had met through school. She arrived quietly, greeted people politely, and took a seat near the corner, content to observe rather than participate loudly.
That was when she noticed him.
Cordy did not command attention deliberately. He was not loud or showy. But there was something about the way he carried himself—calm, composed, grounded. He laughed easily, spoke thoughtfully, and listened more than he talked. When others joked recklessly, he smiled but did not join in excess.
Irish noticed the way people respected him instinctively.
She later learned why.
Cordy was a medical student, nearing graduation. His schedule was demanding, his future clearly outlined by expectations not entirely his own. He was older—twenty-one—but there was no arrogance in him, no sense of superiority.
Their first interaction was simple.
She needed a chair.
He noticed.
He stood up and offered his seat without a word.
"Thank you," Irish said softly.
"You're welcome," he replied, meeting her eyes briefly before returning to his conversation.
It should have ended there.
But life rarely respects simplicity.
Later that night, they found themselves seated beside each other, drawn together by shared acquaintances and casual conversation. Cordy asked her what she studied. Irish answered honestly. She asked about his course, and he explained without pride, only quiet dedication.
"You're young," he said gently when she mentioned her age.
"I've been told," Irish smiled.
There was no flirtation. No inappropriate curiosity. Just two people talking—comfortably, unexpectedly.
When the night ended, Cordy walked her to the door.
"Take care," he said.
"You too," she replied.
She did not think about him on the way home.
Not immediately.
But days later, when she found herself remembering his calm voice, the way he listened—really listened—Irish wondered why.
She did not know then that this was the beginning.
Not of rebellion.
Not of recklessness.
But of a love that would test everything she had been taught.
And for the first time in her life, obedience would no longer be simple.