I remember when the Family Computer arrived in the 80's. In those days, video games were the center of our world. Every weekend, all of us cousins would flock to Tita Nilda's house to play, typical kids back then. But my dad, he wanted that joy to be in our home. So he bought the latest thing which was a Family Computer. He couldn't afford many games, but the ones he did buy were treasures. Suddenly, our house became the weekend destination. And his efforts didn't stop there. He built a makeshift pool in our backyard with a deep well pump at its center, gurgling water to fill it up. It was hilarious, the water was never more than knee-deep, but to us kids, it felt like a resort. He gave us that.
He worked hard from Monday to Friday, but he made sure the weekends belonged to the family. Looking back, I didn't appreciate the magic he wove into those days until I was much older. He would fill our home with the most wonderful smells, preparing his specialties like Kare-kare, embutido, and baked macaroni. And every Sunday night, without fail, there was monggo. I have to admit, I still hate it to this day. Papa knew . He knew the only way I'd even touch it was if it was filled with little pork bits, so he'd always add extra, just for me. It was his quiet way of showing his pagmamahal, his love.
It wasn't all fun and games, though. Little did I realize, Papa was quietly teaching me about discipline and character. Every Sunday night, he made sure that I cleaned and polished my shoes for the week ahead. When he came home from the office, he'd bring the latest issue of Newsweek or The Manila Bulletin, unknowingly planting a love for reading in me that I carry to this day. It's because of him that I sometimes blurt out, "That's common knowledge," after sharing some random trivia.
He was a man of routine and service. He'd wake up at 4:30 every single morning to have a pot of boiling water ready for our baths and breakfast on the table before school. He prepared our baon too. I remember feeling so embarrassed when he would pack me bacon that wasn't crispy like on TV. My classmates would tease me that it was raw. But he later explained that if he cooked it until it was crispy, there would barely be enough left for the whole family. Everything he did, every single thing, had a reason rooted in love and necessity. So much of what I thought was him being cruel back then, I now see was him being a protector. When the whole clan would gather in Cabanatuan, he would never want to stay overnight. As a kid, I found it frustrating. As an adult, I understand. He was protecting the little we had, afraid something might happen to our home. He was a man who carried the weight of his family's safetyon his shoulders, always.
It would be easy for me to stand here and say I hated my dad at times, because in my immaturity, I did. I hated that I couldn't understand his brief explanations. I hated that in these last two years; his illness created a silence between us that we could never quite fill. I hated that he refused our help when Christie and I were trying so desperately to make him healthier, to keep him with us longer. And I hated him for leaving when I wasn't there, for making me feel so helpless.
But I see it clearly now. That "hate" was just a mask for my fear. It was shield for the overwhelming love I felt for a man I couldn't fix and was terrified to lose. It was my way of trying to make sense of regrets he admitted he had.
My dad was not a perfect father. No one is. But he was a good man who tried his absolute best. He provided whatever he could. He was selfless, always, always thinking of us before himself. He may not have been vocal about how he felt, but hislove was in the polished shoes, the extra pork in my monggo, the home he protected so fiercely.
In one of his last breaths, I was able to tell him that I love him. And I hope, whereever he is, he can hear me now. "Papa, mahal na mahal kita. And salamat po for everything." Thank you for making me the person I am today.
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