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2. IBONG ADARNA

LAURA'S MOTHER HAD ONCE BEEN IN LOVE WITH WORDS, the way some people are with first loves or fleeting sunsets. Words were her escape, her secret language with the universe. She'd spent her teenage years filling spiral notebooks with verses no one else would ever read, dreaming of a future where her name sat beneath the title of a paperback in some bookstore window. She chased this dream all the way to college, But then, life intervened, as life often does.

She got pregnant.

It was one of those sticky Philippine summers when she met him, the kind where the countryside feels like it's drenched in honey and sunlight. He was the kind of man who could make silence feel crowded. Not handsome, not even close, but he had this way of looking at her that made her feel like the only person in a room full of people singing karaoke at the top of their lungs.

He was a guest at a family friend's gathering, one of those blowouts where roasted lechón sitting above the banana leaves, and San Miguel beers sweated in the heat. He caught her eye during a raucous round of pancit slurping, sidled up like he belonged there, and asked her to dance. She said no— at first. But his grin was a dare she couldn't resist.

By night's end, he'd charmed her into a dance, something reckless under the stars. By morning, he had her kiss— and before long, he had her future too.

When the realization came, her father was already sitting her down with words like hiya and pamilya.

So she traded her college notebooks for a bridal bouquet and a cheap ring.

At first, her husband played the part well enough. He made her laugh sometimes, pulling goofy faces at the market or inventing songs out of nowhere. But as time went on, she realized he wasn't the man she thought he would be, or maybe he was exactly who he'd always been and she'd just refused to see it. He was selfish, impatient, a man who loved a quick laugh more than he cared for the responsibility.

By the time Laura was born, his charm had evaporated like rain on hot concrete. That's when the hitting began. A slap when dinner wasn't on time. A shove when his beer ran out. It wasn't often at first— just enough to keep her quiet, to make her doubt herself.

Maria sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake, naming her daughter after a princess who was fiercely loved by a hero. Her Laura was running barefoot through the dusty paths of their barangay, shouting louder than the roosters, was nothing like the delicate, idealized princess. This Laura was wild and restless, with scraped knees and dirt-streaked cheeks, there was a bravery and innocence that her mother could only envy.

She saw it every time Laura climbed a tree just because the boys dared her, or stood firm against a kid twice her size who tried to take her marbles.

She was not brave like her little girl, she was afraid and endured her husband's constant berating and fists and when his rage had spent itself for the night, and began staggering the door, the woman's  heart had unclenched just a little, enough to let her breathe.

She cursed at him, only when his back is turned.

"Nay," Laura piped up. "Why'd you name me after a princess? I don't want to be a princess. I want to be Ibong Adarna. Then we could fly away, just you and me."

Maria's throat tightened. She looked at her daughter, whose hair was tangled like the branches of the guava tree she loved to climb. A bird. Of course Laura would choose to be a bird.

Maria smoothed her daughter's hair, her hand trembling slightly. "The Ibong Adarna wasn't always free, mahal. Remember? It was caged. Coveted. Its song was used to heal a king, but it was caught in the middle of greed and betrayal. It couldn't sing when it was trapped."