Singer and songwriter JK Labajo recently opened up about the painful experience of finding his German father, Oliver Stolz.
“I messaged him on Whatsapp,” he recalled. “I said, ‘Hello, my name is Juan Karlos.’ Ang hirap kaya mag-compose ng message sa tatay mo na ‘di mo kilala. Sabi ko, ‘I am the son of May Labajo and I just wanted to message you. I have a lot of questions I want to ask but I’m not reaching out for any kind of financial support, but I just also want you to let you know that my mom passed back in 2013 because of cancer, just in case you didn’t know.’ A few hours later, it was seen. And then a little bit after that, I was blocked on Whatsapp. It felt like the world fell upon me.”
The digital silence that followed JK’s brave WhatsApp message echoed a lifetime of unanswered questions. To reach out to a father he’d never known, to bridge the absence with a few carefully chosen words, was an act of courage in itself. The subsequent blocking, a swift and definitive rejection, landed like a physical blow.
His journey, laid bare in the intimate interview, is a poignant exploration of parental absence and the complex emotions it breeds. He speaks with a maturity that belies his 24 years, navigating the delicate terrain of a childhood marked by both his mother’s physical absence and the enduring question of his father.
“Nung pinanganak ka, you never met your father — iniwan kayo ng tatay mo. Pero ‘yung nanay mo, iniwan ka din niya?” Karen Davila gently probes. JK’s response is laced with the lingering ache of a child trying to make sense of the inexplicable. “Yes, technically. As a kid, nandoon ‘yung kirot nung sakit na parang ‘ano bang ginawa kong mali (As a kid, there is the pain of wondering what wrong I had done).”
He offers a perspective tinged with understanding for his young mother’s choices, acknowledging her desire to experience her youth. Yet, the “tampo,” the quiet resentment of feeling incomplete, surfaces. “Bakit kulang?” he asks, a question that likely echoed in for years.
The absence of explanation from his mother adds another layer of complexity. “My mom never explains anything. Nothing, nothing,” he states, a matter-of-factness that hints at a lifetime of unspoken truths. Despite this, his desire for connection was evident. “I felt as a kid — my mom looked out for me and loved me as her own. Pero siyempre iba kapag alam mong hindi ka parte ng household (But it is different if you know you are not a part of the household).”
The yearning for his father, however, remained a constant undercurrent. “Ever since I was a kid I’ve been looking for my dad,” he reveals. The 2021 attempt to connect via WhatsApp was a pivotal moment, a tangible step towards filling a void. The brutal rejection that followed, the digital slamming of a door, was a profound wound. “Being rejected by your parents hits harder than any other kind of pain,” JK wisely observes. The image of a 21-year-old man, grappling with this pain during the isolation of the pandemic, is a stark reminder of the enduring impact of parental abandonment.
When asked if he loves his father, JK’s answer is honest and introspective. “No, not really. I mean, first of all what is love? Second, what kind of love should I feel for him?”
His questioning reflects a deep understanding that love is earned, nurtured, and built on connection — elements absent in his relationship with his father. The initial flicker of hope for reconciliation has been extinguished. “Not him anymore,” he added firmly.