The first week of June tiptoed in with scattered rains and muddy footprints, softening the summer heat and announcing the arrival of the school year. But for me, June wasn't just the start of another academic grind. June meant one thing—my birthday.
June 12.
A date that, in my previous life, often passed with little more than a greeting and a hastily bought cake. I never made a fuss about it then. But this time, I saw it differently. I wasn't just turning fifteen. I was celebrating the year I took my life back.
Still, I didn't expect anyone to remember. With school starting and everyone adjusting, I figured it would be another quiet day. I didn't mind. The last few months had been full of purpose and small victories. That was enough.
Or so I thought.
---
The morning began with the soft clatter of rain on our freshly patched roof—a sound that would've meant worry before, but now brought comfort. I sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes when I heard movement from the kitchen.
"Arthur, get the cups—carefully!" Mama's voice.
"I got it, I got it! Don't drop the pan!" Papa added.
Confused, I tiptoed toward the noise. The smell hit me first—pandesal, butter, and scrambled eggs. The usual breakfast, but there was something else, something sweeter.
"Happy birthday, Carmela!" Mama and Papa chorused as I stepped into the kitchen.
On the table was a modest spread: warm bread, homemade spaghetti (my favorite), and a hot cup of Milo. A handmade card sat in the center, decorated with dried flowers and glitter.
I blinked, stunned.
"You didn't think we'd forget, did you?" Mama asked with a grin.
"You've been doing so much for us," Papa said. "We wanted to give you something back."
Papa handed me a small box wrapped in old magazine pages. Inside was a necklace—with my name on it.
"It's made by Rjay," he said proudly. "Mama cleaned it already. It's silver!"
I couldn't speak for a moment. My throat closed with emotion. I hugged each of them tightly.
"Thank you," I whispered. "This... this means everything."
---
At school, I expected the day to return to normal routine. New teachers, new subjects, the slight awkwardness of a new school year. But when I entered the classroom, I found a colorful note taped to my desk:
**"Happy birthday to our favorite future novelist! Love, Jean, Jasmine, and Coleen. P.S. There's a surprise at lunch."**
I chuckled, touched. My friends were still the bright spots in my days, grounding me when everything else shifted.
During our break, they dragged me to the back of the school garden. Under the shade of the same acacia tree we always gathered beneath, a small picnic blanket had been laid out with homemade brownies, fruit juice in plastic tumblers, and a paper crown.
"Queen Carmela, ruler of change!" Jasmine declared, placing the crown on my head.
"All hail the girl who made a vegetable garden look chic," Jean teased.
"And who writes stories better than teleseryes," added Coleen, handing me a notebook with my initials on the cover.
"It's for your next masterpiece," she said.
"You guys..."
I didn't know how to thank them properly. They didn't just give me gifts. They gave me memories—ones that replaced old disappointments with new joy.
---
After school, I walked home with a lightness in my step, the sky gray with coming rain but my heart full of color. I passed by the barangay store to grab eggs and flour for Mama, still smiling from the day.
It was there that I ran into Raziel.
He looked like he had just come from the city again—hoodie despite the heat, messy hair, and his ever-present sketchpad.
"Hey," he said, smiling. "I was looking for you."
"Why?" I asked, surprised.
He pulled something from his backpack—a small, palm-sized robot made of recycled parts, painted in bright colors.
"It sings 'Happy Birthday'—sometimes off-key," he said. "But I thought it might make you laugh."
He pressed a button. The robot's tinny voice warbled a birthday tune, then released a burst of confetti made of shredded old notebooks.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my groceries.
"You remembered," I said.
"Of course. You're the only girl I know who can fix a house, write essays that make teachers cry, and still help me debug my code. How could I forget?"
We sat on the store's low bench, talking until the rain started to fall.
"You've really changed things," he said. "Your house, your family, even here."
"I'm just... trying," I said. "Making the most of my life."
He looked at me, something thoughtful in his gaze.
"You're not just trying, Carmela. You're building a new life. And it's kind of amazing."
---
Back home, as rain tapped gently on our roof and the scent of the mango float filled the room, I curled up in my new bedsheet—the one I had sewn myself from old fabrics.
I opened the notebook Coleen gave me. On the first page, I wrote:
"Year one of my second life: I chose love over regret, action over fear, and home over escape. I chose me."
Then I drew a small sunflower below the words, a reminder of growth, of light.
And I made a promise to myself.
That every June 12 from now on wouldn't just be about getting older—it would be a celebration of becoming.
Because this time, I wasn't waiting for life to happen to me.
I was shaping it with my own hands.
And the girl I used to be?
She would be proud.
---
In the days that followed, I continued the momentum. Using the money we earned from the garden produce and Mama's soap orders, we started small upgrades: a water filter to replace our boiled tap water routine, new shelves in the kitchen for better storage, and a fan in the shared bedroom that finally made sleeping in the summer bearable.
Mama even started learning basic budgeting from me.
As the month of June moved forward, the rains came more frequently, bringing with them cooler nights and greener fields. The community began preparing for the fiesta, and Mama was asked to help with organizing. She beamed with pride.
I offered to write the event program and make banners with recycled materials. Coleen lent her camera, and we decided to do a mini photo exhibit featuring life in the barangay.
"Let's call it 'Faces of Home'," she suggested.
We captured images of farmers harvesting rice, children playing in puddles, Lola Flor selling kakanin from her woven basket. We displayed them in the covered court during the celebration.
People stopped, smiled, and talked.
"You're giving our stories a voice," said one neighbor.
That night, under parol lanterns and string lights, with music playing and food shared freely, I realized that home wasn't just a place.
It was the people, the memories, the growth.
And as I watched my family laugh, my friends dance, and neighbors smile under the lights, I knew:
This was exactly the life I was meant to rewrite.
And the best chapters were still to come.