Seeing my father at last

Last Monday, I lost my father. He was 83. And ever since, I’ve been trying to make sense of the storm of emotions that came with his passing. Our relationship was never simple. In truth, it was difficult, sometimes painful.

Growing up, he was a strict disciplinarian. Our home often felt tense. One small mistake could lead to anger, and my brother and I learned to move carefully around him. As a child, all I felt was the fear and the arguments. I didn’t understand the “why.” But life has a way of forcing us to revisit the things we thought we understood.

In the weeks before he died, as he lay in the hospital — frail, quiet, vulnerable — I saw a different version of him. His mind was fixed on one person: my mother. With his final breaths, he called out her name. Something shifted inside me. I saw not the stern man of my childhood, but someone who loved deeply, perhaps more than he ever knew how to show.

In those quiet hours by his bedside, I finally saw his life with clearer, gentler eyes. The harshness wasn’t cruelty; it was the only love he knew, shaped by hardship and an older generation’s idea of care and protection.

Over time, that stern man softened into the devoted husband who quietly supported my mother in everything. And though his methods may seem harsh now, I understand that in his own imperfect way, he was trying to prepare us for a world he knew could be unkind.

From the intimidating figure of my childhood, he somehow became the gentle Opa adored by my nephews and nieces — warm, patient, affectionate. The man who once scolded us for every misstep grew into the husband who cared for my mother with unwavering devotion, grounding her in ways only he could.

I’ll forever cherish those afternoons spent watching old Fernando Poe Jr. and Paquito Diaz movies together, sharing laughter and memories over plates of his beloved beef — a dish he savored almost as much as he cherished his children. I can still hear his soft words telling me he could never leave this world peacefully knowing I had no one to look after me. His love, quiet and imperfect, was a profound gift — a reminder that I was never truly alone.

I didn’t always appreciate it then, but now, in the silence he leaves behind, I see how deeply invested he was in my life, in all our lives. It is only in his absence that I fully see the depth of his sacrifices and the layers of compassion hidden behind his strict exterior.

Grief has a way of peeling back layers. And in losing my father, I finally see him for who he truly was — a man shaped by hardship, softened by time, and capable of loving us fiercely, imperfectly, but genuinely.

His legacy now rests with me and with all of us he left behind, in the ways we move forward, in the ways we love, in the ways we choose compassion even when it’s hard. I hope to carry a piece of him with me, grateful for the lessons he taught me.

And as I step into the days ahead, I’ll hold on to the parts of him that shaped me, comforted by the truth that even a complicated love can leave a gentle place in the heart.