Now I Understand, Papa
“I hate him to the bone.”
I blamed him for every bad thing that happened in my life.
I thought we were a solid family.
We had our own house.
We lived together under one roof.
We looked complete.
But I was too young to understand what was really going on.
I saw him drink from morning to night.
I saw him try to end his life.
I saw him choose another woman.
I saw the empty seat during my school programs.
I saw how he couldn’t explain why he never showed up when I was in the hospital.
I saw everything that hurt me.
But I failed to see what was hurting him.
I didn’t see the pain he was carrying.
I didn’t see the weight he carried every day.
I didn’t see the effort he gave, even when it came in quiet, imperfect forms.
Because those efforts were there.
The breakfasts he made for me before school.
The baon he packed with care.
The PlayStation he rented so we could laugh and play as kids.
The food he cooked on weekends, or the takeouts just to make us smile.
The way he answered all my curious questions during movies.
The way he looked at me was like I wasn’t broken.
The way he let us spend all he had, even if it meant nothing was left for him.
That time I said I was breaking, he came.
No questions. Just brought beer, sat beside me, and listened.
He gave his last money just so I could leave the hospital and go home to Mori.
He gave what he had, even when it was barely enough for him.
But I didn’t understand then.
Not until I grew up.
Not until I started feeling the very same things he must have felt.
He was the only one left here in the Philippines.
His parents and sister had already moved to the US. He was just 18.
I was the only one left here, too.
My family moved to Canada.
I knew what that kind of loneliness felt like.
Being left behind. Being forgotten. Being alone.
until I found myself quietly drowning in my own.
I didn’t understand his attempt to escape
until I stood on that same ledge, wanting out too.
I didn’t understand why he drank
until I had to numb the same kind of ache.
I didn’t understand why he chased love in the wrong places
until I became terrified of being left alone.
I never understood why he didn’t visit me in the hospital
until I saw how his hands trembled at the dentist,
until I noticed how uneasy he was when he rushed me to the hospital as I was about to give birth.
He didn’t have the support I have now.
He didn’t have someone to catch him.
He didn’t have the tools.
He was misunderstood.
He was judged.
And yet, he carried all of it on his own.
All he ever wanted was to be part of a family that stayed.
And me? I was a mess.
But he never asked me to explain myself.
He never judged my decisions.
He never invalidated what I felt.
Papa,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry it took me so long to see the truth.
I’m sorry I focused on your flaws instead of your pain.
I’m sorry it took me years to understand your story.
Thank you.
Because the best parts of how I parent today, I got from you.
The gentleness.
The patience.
The quiet kind of love.
Thank you for trying to be the best father you could, even when no one knew how hard it was for you.
I know this Father’s Day doesn’t feel like a celebration.
I know you’re grieving.
But I’ll keep showing up for you, Papa.
I’ll make sure every day feels like Father's Day in the little ways I know how.
If I could take your pain away, I would do it in a heartbeat.
But today, I’ll sit with you through it.
Because now, I understand.
You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
I’m here.
Like that song by SB19 says,
Ipikit ang 'yong mata, tahan na
Pahinga muna, ako na'ng bahala
Labis pa sa labis ang 'yong nagawa
Papa, pahinga muna
Ako na”
Happy Father’s Day, Papa.
I love you. With everything I am. 💜
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