Dianne and DJ walked toward the tricycle stand, the faint hum of traffic around them mingling with the distant laughter of children playing along the sidewalks. As they approached the stand, Dianne suddenly froze, her steps halting mid-stride. She had heard her name—soft, yet unmistakable.
Turning her head, she spotted a familiar figure approaching. A woman about her age, with kind eyes and a warm smile, was walking toward them with a little girl holding her hand. The girl seemed no older than eight, her hair tied in a neat ponytail. Dianne's heart skipped a beat.
"Dianne, do you remember me?" the woman asked, her voice carrying a note of hope and excitement.
Dianne's lips curved into a smile, memories flooding back like a gentle tide. "Of course," she replied, almost breathless. She couldn't forget her best friend from elementary school—Ana Mae Cordillo. The thought of their childhood adventures, shared secrets, and small acts of kindness brought a nostalgic warmth to her chest.
Ana Mae smiled back, glancing at DJ with a playful tilt of her head. "How have you been? And… your husband?" she asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.
Dianne's heart fluttered slightly. "DJ is my boyfriend," she said quickly. Then, with a soft laugh, she added, "Ana Mae, this is DJ. DJ, meet Ana Mae, my best friend from elementary."
DJ extended his hand with a friendly smile. "It's nice to meet you," he said. Ana Mae shook his hand warmly, the small interaction smooth and easy, a comfort that eased the nervous tension Dianne felt in her chest.
"You know, we should grab some snacks first," Ana Mae suggested, her tone cheerful. "It's been ages since we last met and talked properly."
Dianne's mind wandered briefly to the old days. "This place," Ana Mae said, "this is our old hangout. The 'Batchoy Restaurant.' It's famous here in Bacolod." She led them through the bustling streets, past vendors calling out their daily wares, and the small alleyways that held memories of children running carefree. "We used to come here during recess, remember? You always let me treat you when your allowance wasn't enough."
Dianne felt a small pang of gratitude. She remembered those mornings when she had barely enough money for the tricycle fare to school. Sometimes she had no choice but to walk, hoping to save a few coins for lunch. Ana Mae had always been there, making sure she was never left out.
"So DJ," Ana Mae said casually, "you're from Manila?"
"Yes," DJ replied with a polite nod. Dianne noticed the way Ana Mae's eyes softened as she looked at him, a gentle curiosity in her gaze.
By the time they entered the restaurant, Ana Mae's tone turned proud. "By the way, Dianne, my last name is now Espina, not Cordillo. I married our classmate, Esmael Espina. And this," she said, lifting a small, smiling girl into view, "is our daughter Marieta. She's eight years old."
Dianne's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful! You have a child already!" she exclaimed, sitting next to DJ. Marieta waved shyly at them, her small hand curling around her mother's.
The waiter arrived with their usual orders—steaming bowls of batchoy accompanied by soft puto. The aroma of the noodles and broth mingled with the chatter of nearby diners, a comforting, familiar scent. Ana Mae chuckled softly. "You two should really think about settling down," she teased, nudging Dianne playfully. "Have a child, make it official…"
DJ chuckled, while Dianne felt her cheeks warm. "We just recently became a couple," she admitted, a slight nervousness in her voice. She couldn't help but hope, quietly, that someday this playful comment would be true in every sense. Yet a shadow of doubt lingered. She wasn't sure if she was enough for him—beautiful enough, worthy enough.
Ana Mae's eyes softened as she looked at DJ. "DJ, you're really lucky if Dianne becomes your wife. She's kind, hardworking, responsible, and incredibly thoughtful." Her words were simple but sincere, carrying the weight of years of shared history.
Dianne took a bite of her batchoy, savoring the taste that brought back a flood of childhood memories—days spent running around the school grounds, selling pastillas in classrooms to help support her small allowance, and the endless hours of laughter shared with Ana Mae.
"I remember," Ana Mae said, "back in Grade 5, I would help you sell pastillas in our classroom. And after class, we'd walk around the school, visiting other classrooms during free periods. I admired how fearless and determined you were. You didn't mind selling to anyone just to add to your allowance and help your family."
Dianne smiled faintly. "I was just trying to do what I could," she said. "I never thought it would mean so much to anyone."
"You were responsible even then," Ana Mae said softly. "Dependable, smart, caring. That's why we were all surprised when you graduated from Grade 6 and didn't get any medals. I remember when you even spoke to my mother—our teacher. She had a valedictorian child, and she told you, 'If you want to prove your talent, you should enroll in the same school as my child.'"
Dianne sighed, the memory bittersweet. "Let's just forget about that," she said quietly. "We were just kids back then."
After finishing their meal, they exchanged farewells. Ana Mae offered to pay, but DJ insisted. The gentle banter and insistence ended with Ana Mae laughing and letting DJ cover the bill.
As they rode the tricycle home, DJ broke the silence. "So, what happened back then with that school comment from Ana Mae?"
Dianne glanced out the window, the streets blurring as they passed. "Let's not talk about it… it was a long time ago," she said, but her mind was still there.
She remembered enrolling in that school, following the valedictorian as suggested. Her classmate became an automatic scholar, while Dianne had to take the entrance exam. When the results came back, her mother told her she hadn't passed. The disappointment hit her like a heavy weight, frustration welling up inside. She felt as though she had failed not only herself but also her mother, who had worked hard to save the money for her tuition.
The first week of classes, she was called to the principal's office. Her heart pounded in her chest, palms clammy. She feared the worst—that she would be asked to leave because of her low exam score. She whispered prayers under her breath, hoping the principal would take pity on her. Thoughts of her mother and the sacrifices she had made flooded her mind. Every step toward that office felt heavier than the last, the echo of her shoes against the polished floor marking the rhythm of her anxious heartbeat.