I grew up with pieces of a life I never fully understood. My parents separated before I could even form memories. My mother and I started over in Nueva Ecija—a land of rice fields, slow afternoons, and whispers that traveled faster than the wind. I didn’t remember my biological father, only the emptiness he left behind.
When I was four, my mother remarried. The man she chose had nothing but tired hands, sunburned skin, and a quiet willingness to work. A construction worker. No promises. No savings. Just effort.
At first, I didn’t like him. He was gone before sunrise, back long after dark, smelling of sweat, rust, and concrete dust. But slowly, I noticed the things he did silently. He fixed my bicycle. Repaired my torn sandals. When I cried after school, he didn’t lecture—he rode his rickety bike to fetch me and said, “I won’t force you to call me father. But Tatay will always be behind you if you need him.”
The next day, I called him Tatay.
My childhood became a tapestry of his sacrifices. Mornings began with the rattle of his old bicycle, evenings ended with his exhausted smile. He didn’t understand algebra or literature, but he understood opportunity.
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