Mumbai's early morning bustle hummed outside the high glass windows of the small orphanage office. The streets were alive with honking rickshaws, the scent of spices wafting from street carts, and the distant calls of vendors setting up shop.
Inside, Ignacio Geraldine adjusted his tie, exchanging a quiet look with his wife, Hilda. They had come to India on business, a meeting with luxury goods partners, but today was Hilda's birthday — and she had insisted on visiting the orphanage nearby.
The caretaker opened the door hesitantly. "We're sorry, but we cannot accept any new children today. The orphanage is full, and funding is very limited."
Hilda stepped inside, her eyes soft but determined. "We understand. But may we just see the children? Please."
They were led through the modest courtyard where a handful of children played quietly, some with shy smiles, others wary of strangers. Then, near the entrance, something caught Hilda's eye.
A tiny bundle lay on a thin blanket, barely more than a few days old. Her large almond-shaped eyes opened briefly, catching the faint light. Her skin was dusky—not quite Indian tan, not quite Filipino brown—but beautiful in its own right.
The caretaker sighed. "She was left here this morning. We have no choice but to send her to the government shelter. We cannot afford to keep her."
Hilda knelt slowly beside the baby, careful not to disturb her. "Can we… help her?" she asked quietly, glancing at Ignacio.
Ignacio, who had been watching silently, nodded after a moment. "We're not adopting," Hilda added quickly, "just... guardians. We want to keep her safe. For now."
The baby cooed softly, curling her tiny fingers around Ignacio's hand.
"It's your birthday today, Hilda," Ignacio said, a small smile breaking through. "Seems like she's your first gift."
Hilda's eyes glistened. "Then her name will be Ria—after my mother."
For the rest of their trip, they visited the orphanage often. The other children blurred into the background; their hearts were set on Ria, the fragile infant with the big eyes.
When their meeting in Mumbai ended, Ignacio and Hilda returned to the Philippines, carrying with them a secret promise to the baby girl they had left in trusted care — and a hope that one day, she might have a family.
Back in Manila, the hum of the city felt both familiar and distant. Ignacio and Hilda slipped back into their routine—the meetings, the gala dinners, the luxury goods business that had defined their lives for over a decade.
But beneath the polished surface of their days, a quiet ache took root.
Each month, when Hilda passed a mother pushing a stroller or heard the distant cry of a baby, her heart tightened. She'd glance at Ignacio, who often caught her look and simply nodded, understanding without words.
One evening, seated in their spacious living room overlooking the city lights, Hilda stirred her tea absentmindedly. "Do you think she's okay?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ignacio looked up from the papers he was reviewing, the corners of his mouth tightening. "I think about her too," he admitted. "Ria."
They shared a look that held a thousand unspoken promises.
Neither wanted to disrupt the life they had built — not yet. But in quiet moments, the memory of that tiny infant with large almond eyes, the fragile bundle they had left behind in Mumbai, filled the empty spaces in their hearts.
Life went on, but Ria remained — a whispered hope, a silent guardians vow.
It had been nearly eleven months since they left Mumbai.
Manila moved fast—boardroom meetings, seasonal showcases, opening nights, never-ending social calendars. The Geraldines thrived in it. Or at least, they appeared to. Behind the designer dresses and polished smiles, Hilda counted the months quietly, sometimes in the shower, sometimes while staring at a swaddle of clouds from the penthouse window.
On her mother's remembrance day, she lit the incense, laid fresh sampaguita on the altar, and closed her eyes. But she didn't just feel her mother.
She felt Ria.
A child whose voice she'd never heard. A name they hadn't written down on any legal paper. A heartbeat she had held only once.
That evening, the city glowed outside their windows. Soft jazz played somewhere in the background, but neither Ignacio nor Hilda heard it.
"I hate this life sometimes," she said, her tone calm but edged with fatigue. "This big, perfect life. We have everything—but I can't even see her. Even on my mother's day, I can't see her."
Ignacio looked up from his wine, quiet for a moment. "We never missed sending the funds," he said gently. "She's safe, Hilda. Because of this life. This big, exhausting life lets us guard her."
"But when will I meet her?" Hilda's voice wavered, almost inaudible. "Will she ever get a family? Or is this all we'll ever do? Wait and send money from a distance?"
"If she's fated to get that," Ignacio said carefully, "she will."
She didn't reply right away. Her eyes stayed on the skyline, her arms folded across her chest as if holding herself in place.
After a long silence, she asked quietly, "Has our waiting made you hate me?"
He looked over. "What?"
"For not giving the Geraldines an heir," she said. Her voice cracked but didn't cry. "It's been eleven years. Don't you ever think—if I were another woman…"
Ignacio set his glass down. "My brother has a son," he said. "He's more than enough to carry the Geraldine name. But me?" He reached over and took her hand. "I didn't marry the Geraldine heirloom. I married you. Whether you gave birth or not never changed that."
Her eyes filled, but she smiled. "If I was in another family," she whispered, "I'd be blamed. Pitied. Maybe even replaced."
Ignacio squeezed her hand. "But you're not. You're ours."
She didn't say anything after that. She didn't need to. That night, she sat beside him in silence, wrapped in a stillness only love without conditions could hold.
But in her heart, Ria remained—not a wound, but a longing. Still unanswered. Still waiting
The ballroom gleamed under crystal chandeliers, the air thick with the hum of polished conversations and clinking glasses. The city's elite gathered in tailored suits and flowing gowns, trading whispers about deals, legacies, and power.
At the center of the night's murmurs were the Geraldines — the family synonymous with luxury goods, with a legacy built over generations. But tonight, the spotlight turned colder.
A woman with sharp eyes and a practiced smirk circled the Geraldine table, her voice dripping with calculated venom loud enough for select ears. "I still don't understand why the Geraldines keep someone like Hilda around," she said, eyes glittering with malice. "Eleven years married and not a single heir? What good is an infertile wife to a dynasty?"
Ignacio's father's jaw tightened. His mother's eyes narrowed, but neither spoke.
Ignacio's brother's wife, a quiet but fierce defender, stepped forward. "Perhaps loyalty, and love, matter more than mere children," she said coolly, eyes fixed on the woman.
Hilda's heart clenched — not at the insult to herself, but at the coldness of the world she'd stepped into.
Her gaze drifted to a corner of the room where a young mother cradled a newborn. The baby's tiny fingers grasped her mother's necklace, and the mother's eyes shone with pure, unguarded love.
For a moment, Hilda saw more than the scene — she saw Ria. She didn't know why that image struck her so deeply, but it wrenched something loose inside her.
Before anyone could notice, Hilda stood abruptly, murmured an excuse, and slipped through the crowd.