For most of my life, my father has been somewhere out at sea.

The year I was born was the same year he began working onboard ships as a seafarer. More than two decades later, he is still there, crossing oceans and spending months away from home to provide for our family.

Looking back, I can barely remember how many Father's Days we actually spent together.

Like many children of overseas Filipino workers (OFWs), I grew up understanding that my father's absence was the price we paid for a better life. Yet understanding it never made it easier.

One of my earliest memories was crying quietly after we sent him off at the airport. There would be a short hug, a few reminders, sometimes a small gift, and then he would disappear behind the departure gates. The house always felt emptier afterward.

My father, Rey Mago, was different from my mother in many ways. He never raised his hand against me or my sister. In fact, he often became our shield whenever our mother was upset with us. When I had problems I could not tell anyone else, he was the person I turned to.

Even if he was physically present for only about a month each year, I never felt abandoned. Somehow, despite the distance, he managed to guide me through life.

One of my favorite childhood memories happened shortly after the Mall of Asia opened. My father told me we were heading to the restroom. Instead, he secretly brought me to a toy store and bought me a remote-controlled helicopter — a toy I had dreamed of owning.

The excitement I felt that day remains vivid. More importantly, I remember how he patiently taught me how to fly it when we got home. It was not simply about receiving a toy; it was about spending time with him. Those moments were rare and precious.

There was also a funny incident when my sister and I got into a fight during elementary school. My father was furious but, true to his nature, he could not bring himself to hit us. Instead, he locked us together in the bathroom — with the lights on — and instructed us not to come out until we had made peace.

It sounds amusing now, but it reflected who he was as a parent. He believed in conversations rather than punishment. No matter how heated our arguments became over the years, he never laid a hand on me. Some may consider that the bare minimum. For me, it was a lesson about the power of words, patience and respect.

The hardest chapter of our family's story came when my mother was diagnosed with cancer.

Because of work and circumstances beyond his control, my father could not immediately come home. While my mother battled the disease, he remained at sea, carrying the burden of supporting us financially after our family business had to close.

During her final days, my mother refused to video call him. She knew how soft-hearted he was and did not want him to witness her suffering in her final moments.

My mother died in February 2023 without my father beside her.

It was then that I truly understood the painful reality of being an OFW.

From 2022 to 2023, my father watched cancer slowly take away the woman he loved through phone calls and video chats. At one point, I was angry with him. I felt overwhelmed carrying so much responsibility and emotion without him physically present.

But as I grew older, I realized the difficult position he was in. His inability to come home immediately was not simply a matter of choice. There were work obligations, financial realities, and sacrifices that both my parents had accepted for the sake of our family.

When he finally arrived home for my mother's funeral, I witnessed a different kind of strength — the strength of a man grieving the loss of his partner while trying to remain strong for his children.

My mother left behind three children. My father sat me down and told me he would not be retiring anytime soon. He needed to continue working, and I needed to help take care of the family.

In many ways, that conversation marked the beginning of adulthood for me.

Since then, he has often told me, "I trust your decisions for the family and yourself."

What he may not know is how much those words have carried me through difficult days.

Whenever I feel exhausted, overwhelmed, or uncertain, I think about the life he has lived since 2001. The months spent away from home. The birthdays missed. The Father's Days celebrated alone aboard a ship. The personal struggles he rarely talked about.

Today, I realize that while I have already grown into adulthood, my younger brother — who turns 11 this year — is now experiencing a side of our father that I once knew as a child. He is growing up listening to the same reminders, receiving the same guidance, and learning the same lessons that shaped me. This time, I am fortunate enough to witness it alongside him.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts my father has given us. Despite the years spent away at sea, he never stopped being a father. His advice, values and presence have continued to reach us, even across oceans. And now, as my younger brother grows up, I see those lessons being passed on to another generation of our family.