Fatherless Child

There are mornings I wake up feeling downhearted with the thought that I am still the daughter of my father— mornings I wish I was just trapped in a trance and any moment someone else’s blood would run through my veins.

I do not know exactly when I lost my father.

I do not know exactly when my Dada died— in my heart.

Dada.

It was a plain and simple word that could stir a beat even to the numbest soul. It could have also been a muted cry of a lost waif longing to be cared for. Or it could have been a child’s hymn to her father whom she reveres in all honesty.

Whenever my Mom would recount how difficult it was for me to sleep without Dada beside me, I could not help not to flinch especially when she would tease me how I made a pillow and blanket out of my Dada’s bear-like tummy and warm embrace. Even the smell of his underarm, my Mom said, sent a strange kind of aroma into my nostrils giving me a sound and soothing sleep.

I was embarrassed when my Mom mentioned about it ‘though I know what she was saying were true. Even for myself I can still recall how I cried and ran after my Dada every morning when I hear the sound of his car’s engine thinking that I would never see him again at home. My young mind then could not understand why he has to go every morning to work and go home late at night. My Mom said he must work for us— to eat, to send us to school, and buy everything we need. I could not understand then why in order for us to have so much money to spend, my Dada must spend so little of his time for us.

During my childhood years, it was very obvious that I am my Dada’s lucky charm. Whenever he plays cards and asks me to blow his cards, he surely wins the game. Maybe that’s the main reason why my other siblings envied me— for the very reason that I am his pet, I am my Dada’s little girl, and apparently all his attention was on me even though I am not the youngest.

Maybe it was also for the same reason why at a very young age I had the courage to speak to him what was in my mind. Unlike my other siblings who were scared to be scolded, I developed a strange kind of confidence that my Dada would never get mad at me. That’s why I was usually the one who calls him on the phone in the places (especially restaurants) wherever he was. I memorized all the phone numbers of those places just to make sure that he would go home early. I could still hear the voice of a seven-year-old girl uttering, “Good evening po. Pwede po ba kay Engr. Macatuno? ‘Da, umuwi ka na! ‘Wag kang magpapagabi!” And with my powerful order, he usually followed my command with a box of chocolate-flavored drumsticks as my pasalubong.

I was stricter than my Mom who sometimes secretly conspired with me in calling my Dada even he was in the middle of his business meeting. It seemed that I was like a wife to him who kept on nagging him to go home as soon as he could. But more than that, I was his little girl who could not sleep without him around.

Those were the blissful times I spent with my Dada. Gone were the days I ran after him before he goes to work because now, just like the phone numbers of those places he had been, I could hardly remember when the last time we’ve exchanged a sensible conversation was. I couldn’t even hear the laughter we have shared. And even for a quarter of a minute, I couldn’t even look at him straight in the eye. It’s as if my eyes were looking directly in the heightened glow of the sun.

When I lost my rank as one of the top ten achievers during my high school years, I was ecstatic for I was able to come across a stream in the desert I was stuck in. Being one of the achievers played a greater portion in contributing to my agony. I did not fully enjoy my elementary years because I forced myself to be like this and like that. I was afraid that the attention I was getting from my Dada was slowly fading away just like a mist.
I wanted to please my father.

Since I entered school there’s only one thing I asked from him: to accompany me upstage in getting my certificates of recognition. But he never went up unless I become a valedictorian or a salutatorian. I know not earning an award would not make me less of a person. It’s just a title. It would never measure a person’s worth. But that’s the rule of my father. It’s his kind of game. So I strived and played according to his set of laws to earn what I had been struggling for—his approval.

Fortunately, I was able to finish grade school making him somehow proud of me. Never mind those nights I have to stay awake just to prepare for my lessons the next day. The cups of instant coffee that had been my weapons to my enticing bed were worth the drink because for the very first time, he went along with me in my graduation.

My father would never know how I considered that moment a remarkable one as he was walking with me in the aisle during the presentation of the graduates. He would never know how momentous it was for me to have him beside me as I go along each and every step of that stage facing hundreds of audience wearing my head high for I could tell all of them especially my classmates that I have also a father who’s proud of what I have achieved. He would never know how his presence helped me to deliver my salutatory speech without faltering; how I managed to confidently speak in front of many people for I was too afraid to commit a single blemish that would stain his pride for me and would make him stand on his seat and walk away. I was too scared that my life’s greatest achievement—his presence, would abruptly fade in just a blink of an eye. But he would never know all of these because he became too distant to be near just like an illusion— he was always there yet he was never present at all.

I didn’t mind my father manipulating my life, at first. I didn’t mind entrusting to him my decisions in life that were supposed to be made by myself just like letting him to send me in an all-girls secondary school instead of enrolling in the university where my elder sister and friends chose to study. After all, he is my father and I believe he would never do things that would harm me just like the early days of my childhood when he would carry me on his back and jog around our subdivision. My young mind knew then that even if I let go of my hands embracing his neck, I would not fall down for he would never let go his protective hands off me. Or so I thought.

When I was in high school, I was able to be included in the top ten lists overall among the three hundred second year students in the academy. I asked my father if he could go with me in our recognition day. Instead of approving he asked me, “Top eight ka lang?”
His reaction was not new to me but his words, how disappointed he was to me for not placing first, felt like falling on the ground a hundred times. It was then that I considered myself defeated by my peerless foe-- my father’s expectations.

I looked up to my Dada, honored him and sometimes to the extent of forgetting myself to make him recognize me, again. His approval and satisfaction to my accomplishments were crucial to me. Why? Because he himself is a very proud man. His words were like thunder-- forceful and piercing through every nerve of our system. But with his own might, he himself ruptured his image as a father.

I didn’t imagine that there would come a time I would wake up carrying with me so much anger towards the father whom I placed in a pedestal. I didn’t imagine he was capable of hurting my mom; of hurting us— his family. Back then whenever I do things, I always consider his happiness ‘though I defy mine. It is for the main reason that I wanted him to be proud of me the way I was to him. I thought we have somehow a good family if not perfect.
For about two years I avoided my father. I never talked to him nor even care to look at him. Whenever I see him, I saw how my mom suffered for quite a long time. It was hard for me to treat him like a stranger to think we’re living at the same house but it was harder for me to accept the fact that he ruined our family.

We are complete, physically; but beyond that completeness, I hear the brokenness of our family.

***I once wrote this story. But then, this is one chapter in my life that I just want to let it go. Probably because, I was a child then. I never really understood things. Now, even though my father and I were not that close, what is more important is we are patching up things. I am more mature now and I can say what my father did is something that every father out there might have done or is doing. Yes, I felt betrayed. But my dad is not perfect. I can see how he strived to give us good and comfortable life. Despite what happened, he never neglected his obligations. And now, he is not getting any younger. I believe he loves my mom and he loves us. He is not the showy-sweet type of father but I can see how he value us. I hope, one day I can write something beautiful about him-- something that would make him happy...and proud of.