As I stood before the small iron gate, I thought about the first and last time I spent Christmas and New Year at this house.

It was the only holiday I spent at my father’s house. I was eight years old.

I didn't remember anymore if it was my father who invited me, or if my mother persuaded him to take me for the holidays. What I did remember was stepping into that tall iron gate, its height all the more imposing as I was short for my age. The big house was in shades of lemon yellow and lime green, with columns lining the front door like sentries. The big tinted windows resembled dark, unblinking eyes, with nothing inside visible.

A concrete wall wrapped around the property, with vines creeping up in tangling braids of brown and green. At its base were shrubs of santan flowers, the red blooms providing a nice contrast from all the verdigris. Pinwheels in blues, reds, and whites, like candy canes, spun in the cool December air, stuck haphazardly among the leaves. I breathed a sigh of awe.

My father stood just beyond the gate, his arms opened wide as the tricycle that brought me there rushed and rattled away. Two children, one older and one younger than me, stood flanking my father as he welcomed me.

"Neil, my boy!" my father exclaimed, pulling me into a hug.

I fell into his arms and rested my cheek against his chest. I could not bring myself to hug him back, not when the two children were staring, invading a private moment of connection. Instead, I just stood and let my father hug and pat my back. I could smell his cloying cologne while I met the eyes of the two children.

My half-siblings stood together to the side, hands clasped in each other's. The older one, a girl, had a pinched look on her face, as if she was watching her father hold a dirty, smelly stray, and she could not fathom why he would ever touch or welcome such a creature. The younger one, a boy like me, looked at us with a confused expression. He was only five years old. I didn't think he understood yet the shape of a broken family. His sister, ten years old, did. She understood that I was a reminder of her father's betrayal, not wholly theirs, and yet someone they had to tolerate for the holidays.

Their mother, my half-siblings', was an overseas Filipino worker. She wouldn't be coming home to spend the holidays. So instead it was just me, them, and our shared father. The two children did not treat me callously or meanly. But they skirted around me, shrinking shy at my Manila accent, and rolling their eyes when I did not understand their colloquialisms. They asked stunted questions that left their lips hesitatingly, as if their curiosity was hindered by the inherent resentment of having to acknowledge a half-sibling in the first place.

"Anong pangalan ng inay mo?"
"Bakit naparito ka, bakit wala ka roon?"
"Ilang taon ka na?"

All throughout, my father flitted in and out of our orbit. He disappeared into his room, or he left the house for business, or he was simply too tired and lay on the living room sofa, watching TV, clutching the remote control, and not wanting to be bothered. His children instead were left to entertain themselves. The lone household help, who took care of cleaning and cooking, did not stay in the big house with them. Instead she would come in at 6 a.m., cook food enough for the entire day, clean the house until noon, and then leave. After that, the house swallowed us whole.

Its size amazed me. Compared to the small studio apartment that Mama and I shared, it felt endless, perfect for running and playing in. I thought that my father was rich. How else could he afford a big house like this, with a garage and garden? What he lacked in attention and time, he compensated for with things.

The Christmas tree was overflowing with presents at the base. There was always food in the cupboards and on the table. The fridge was stocked with chocolates, wine and beer, meats, salads, and more. At home, Mama and I lived day to day, peso to peso. We didn’t own a refrigerator. We bought food only for the present because there was no way to keep it for the future.

Here, fruit sat untouched until it softened and split, skins darkening, juices oozing. I didn’t understand how food could be wasted so easily.

I also didn’t understand why my father never helped my mother and me, not even just for my school allowance. When I was six years old, I once texted my father on my Mama's phone, asking him if he could give me just twenty pesos every day for school. I was jealous of the kids who had money to spare to buy an ice cream cone after school.

My Mama found out about my silly, meagre request. She got mad at me, telling me that I was like a beggar asking for scraps. I suppose she meant that if I was going to ask my father for money, I might as well ask him for half of what is needed to raise me. But in my head at that time, I thought it was my fault for asking, and I shouldn't have done so.

When my father did not reply anymore, nor did he send my school allowance of twenty pesos a day, or 600 pesos a month, I felt both relieved and disappointed. Relieved because at least my pathetic request for scraps did not materialize, and maybe Mama could forget I ever embarrassed her.

And disappointed, because more than the money, I wanted my father to give me the money himself, so at least I could see him. Maybe he could even pick me up from school and we could buy the ice cream together. A ten-peso cone with two small scoops, one for each of us.

One morning during that holiday, I woke up late. It was nearly eleven. My half-siblings were arguing loudly in the dining area. No one had woken me up for breakfast. As I rubbed my eyes blearily, I saw there were sunny-side-up eggs, tuyo, hotdogs, and fried rice left for me on the table, covered with a mesh lid to keep flies away. Our father was nowhere to be seen. As I approached, I saw that they were arguing about the leche flan and small tub of ice cream on the table, a gift from our father based on their conversation.

"No, Jayjay! You can have the leche flan. The ice cream is mine. That's why there's two kinds of sweets. One for each of us!"

"But why can't we share it, Ate? I can give you leche flan, and you can give me ice cream. That way we can have both!"

Their chatter stopped abruptly when they saw me. The two of them exchanged looks before looking at me again. Jayjay made to whisper something to his Ate, but Zia pinched him in the arm.

"You can eat breakfast now," Zia told me. She stood, spreading her arms and resting her elbows on the dining table, a way to hide the two sweets from my view. "If you want Milo, you can go make a cup in the kitchen. Just borrow Papa's mug."

"Don't use my mug!" Jayjay added. "It's the one with robot prints. It's super cool so I know you'll like it, but I don't want you using it. It is for me only!"

"What's that?" I asked instead, tilting my head to look at the sweets. But Zia angled her body to hide them from me.

She replied, "A gift...from our Mama. Yes, our Mama sent it for us."

"Your Mama sent it to you from Dubai?" I challenged. I knew she was lying, and not even convincingly. I continued, "Papa said I could help myself..."

"Well, that's what Papa said for his food. This is from our Mama, and you're not our Mama's son, so you can't have any."

I did not fight it anymore. I walked away, wondering if their selfishness came from my father, who had learned how to divide his life so cleanly that nothing ever spilled over to me.

At the time, I thought my father was admirable, in how he could treat his legitimate children with toys and sweets, and give them a big house to grow up in. Instead of judging him on his merits, I judged him by what he could provide materially. I did not understand yet that fatherhood demanded presence, not just provisions.

This misunderstanding followed me for years.

That's why, when I was eighteen, I was surprised to find out that my older half-sister, Zia, cut off all contact with our father. I heard it through the grapevine—from my mother's relatives who still kept tabs on my father's first family, then eventually from my father himself. I messaged him a happy birthday in February, and he all but dumped on me his woes and sorrows, complaining of an ungrateful daughter who would abandon her own father.

He praised me afterward. Said that I should have been his legitimate son because I was a dutiful and respectful child who never forgot to greet him on his birthday or in the holidays. But his sweet words did not make me feel happy or content. They made me feel uncomfortable, the praise draping over me like a scratchy sweater I had grown up not wearing and not needing. I stopped replying to his text messages and just put him on silent.

Then three years later, his son, 18-year-old Jayjay, moved out, too. He left to live with his sister and their mother, who had moved back to the Philippines earlier in that year. I stalked his Facebook account to see he was no longer friends with our father.

The house, I imagined, must have grown even bigger then, with just my father in it.

I did not plan on visiting him. Twelve years had passed since that first and last holiday. But then I found myself in the same province for work. With nothing else to do, I went to his address.

I prepared to see the big house and the looming gate. But when the tricycle dropped me off, the house was surprisingly tiny. It still had two storeys, but it did not tower over me anymore, nor did it seem like a castle. The pointed roof no longer seemed to stab into the sky. It was still yellow and green, but the paint was cracking in places, and the walls and windows were dirty, in dire need of cleaning. The flowers were long gone, with only bare shrubs more shriveled than growing. The iron gate was rusted and creaked when I pushed it open.

My father sat outside on a plastic chair. He had transformed into a thin, wrinkled man from the strong one that greeted me all those years ago. The ironed polo shirt and khaki pants were gone, and he was wearing a white sando hiked over his pot belly, and grey boxers that ended right above his knees. His legs were bulging with varicose veins, and they clenched and twisted as he struggled to stand up. He opened his arms, tiny frail wings extended into flight, and he said, "Neil, my boy, a young man, look at you!"

He embraced me. I hugged him back this time.

Inside, the house felt smaller still. Dust coated the furniture. The old sofa sat in the middle of the dark, forlorn house. Pictures of his children still lined the walls. But that was it. There were no more pictures from their teens, nor of their early adulthoods. No medals from graduations. No toys under the pathetic tree, which, judging by the coat of dust, hasn’t been maintained for at least a few years.

He kept only one light bulb on, the one in the living room, and even this one was dull and a clinical blue, at odds with the yellow and green walls, and the brown and orange tile floors. Everything seemed grey and green, as if the house itself was sick, sick from loneliness, neglect, and abandonment.

I greeted him and asked about his health. At first, the conversation was platitudes, pleasantries, weather, and what-have-yous. But then, right in the middle of telling me about how he lost all his money from trying to keep the business afloat, only for him to end up selling him to a Bombay businessman, he started tearing up. He hiked his sando higher, using the hem to wipe his tears and cloudy cataract eyes. He was only, what, 56, 57 years old? But he seemed like he was at the end of his life. The thought unsettled me.

"And Jayjay, he believed the lies his Ate Zia told him. They don't ever recall my sacrifices. Only ever remembered my shortcomings. But no one is perfect. They'll be sorry when I die. They will feel so bad. They won’t even talk to me or visit me."

He sniffed, and while his snot did not drip, a line of drool escaped the corners of his downturned mouth, down his jowls and wrinkly chin. He continued, "Zia's mayabang now, just because she's an engineer now. But I'm still her father. Gave her money for baon. She didn’t even invite me to her graduation."

In a fit of desperation, he lunged toward me and I had to steady him lest he fall onto the floor. He held me by the shoulders, and I held him by his arms.

"I was a good father, wasn't I, Neil-boy? I gave you presents for Christmas, I was there for you," he said, hiccuping with tears.

He gave me one present, all those years ago when I spent the holidays. And when I left to go back to my mother, he reverted to ignoring me, pretending I didn't exist. He vanished again.

I did not know how to answer his desperate questions. I was not above lying to him, but I didn't think he deserved to be placated with false platitudes. I did not hate this man. Instead, I felt sorry for him and his terrible, terrible life. What happiness did he truly know? Did he know about forgiveness and love, from others and from himself? By the way he still sees himself as a martyr, it's obvious he doesn't. And I think it is too late to teach him.

Instead, I settled for a middle ground. "You did what you could," I mumbled. I did not add, "And it wasn't enough." He was so desperate for any approval, anything that would show he was in the right, that he took my pathetic consolation at its face value, and he relaxed and fell back into the sofa.

Before I stood to leave, he said, "Neil, there’s leche flan in the ref. Take it. Just return the container.”

I did. And as I held it, I remembered the sweets on the table all those years ago.

He wanted me to come back. To stay.

I never made any promises. The moment I stepped out of the gate, the sky darkened and it began to rain. I looked back at the ugly verdant house, dark, lonely, neglected, and I breathed a sigh of relief. And I understood then that staying would cost me more than leaving ever could.