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Raising your own

Your boss almost fired you for a delayed article. With a gossip gay seat mate, spreading the office atmosphere rumors that you're still on the job for selling your soul (to the said boss). What a day!  


But not enough drama, you stepped out your office cubicle, went straight to the elevator, pressed the down button. Ding! You hopped in and in just a few floors to the ground… it stopped.

Thank God! The maintenance in the office quickly responded. Finally, you are out of the office building—praying “no more tragedies”. Then, it rained so hard just before a jeepney stopped before you. 


That’s Ok. It’s almost home anyways. Home sweet home is home safe home. Then, just after your very first leap of your house door, you stepped into something followed by a very loud quack. No it’s not a duck… It’s Laila’s rubber duckie with a rushing little Laila to hug you.

Laila—that’s how I dreamed my future daughter’s name to be. I love kids. In fact, it lands on my top 10 goals to have a child of my own. I adore them. There’s something about their innocence that makes everything feel light and easy to be with them. Spending time with them makes me remember a lot of my childhood too. It’s like I’m that little child again.

I want to be that child again… where dreams feels lot easier to be achieved. The child who thinks the most dangerous thing in life is to fail periodical exams. The child who dreams of becoming a journalist. The child who is scared of her parents more than anything in this world. That child who refuses to sleep alone. The child who needs a hug, a helping hand. The child I was before: free.  


love,  now and always,

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