It wasn't that Mikha was nervous.
Not exactly.
She had presented architectural plans in front of multimillionaire clients. She'd spoken on panels, led site visits where she'd instructed full crews of men twice her age. She had faced spreadsheets that defied logic and contractors who ignored code.
But meeting Aiah's parents?
In Cebu?
That was a different kind of stress.
A personal one.
Intimate.
Unquantifiable.
Not familiar.
She had tried, of course, to prepare. She packed efficiently. Three neutral-toned polos. One modest dress shirt in case dinner turned formal. Breath mints. A portable steamer. Gifts—local coffee beans and small eco-conscious pasalubongs Aiah assured her were "tita-safe."
But nothing could quite calibrate the reality of stepping off the plane and seeing Mary Lou and Dick Arceta waiting at the arrivals gate, waving excitedly like they'd just won a raffle.
And then—
"Hi, Ma, Pa!" Aiah called out as they neared.
Mikha stood stiffly beside her as Aiah was enveloped in kisses and laughter and affectionate tugs. And then—
"Oh, so this is Mikha!" Mary Lou beamed, stepping forward.
She was petite, her hair pulled into a bun, eyes sharp behind designer reading glasses. "Mas maganda ka pa sa picture! Grabe 'tong anak ko, ang tagal kang tinago sa amin."
Before Mikha could answer, Mary Lou reached out, took both her hands, and pulled her into a hug.
Startled, Mikha blinked—then, slowly, let her hands settle awkwardly on the woman's back.
"Hello po, tita, tito" she said stiffly.
"Don't be shy Mikha," Mary Lou said immediately, pulling back. "You're family na. Right, Dick?"
Aiah's father, a tall, solid-looking man in a golf shirt and salt-and-pepper hair, stepped forward with a wide grin and a firm handshake.
"Hi, Mikha. Welcome to Cebu. We've heard a lot about you."
Mikha raised an eyebrow at Aiah, who just grinned like she'd been caught.
"Selective information," Aiah whispered. "I wanted to preserve the mystery."
They drove straight to the family home, a sun-drenched, airy house with white-painted banisters and blue-tinted windows, overlooking the sea. Bougainvillea vines trailed down from the second-floor balcony. Inside, the scent of garlic, onion, and newly polished wood floors welcomed them in.
There, Mikha was met with another kind of chaos:
Bryan, Aiah's older brother, stocky and smiling with a toddler in his arms, and his wife Meg, graceful and glowing with sleep-deprived warmth.
"This is my brother, Bryan. And my sister in law Meg. And this—" Aiah lifted the baby out of Bryan's arms "—is Tiara. Baby Ia."
Mikha stared at the child.
Tiara stared back.
Then grinned.
"Looks like she likes you," Meg said, surprised.
Mikha blinked. "I'm... statistically not great with children."
"She's not statistically normal," Aiah replied, bouncing her niece gently. "She's elite."
