Seasonal orphan

My father never apologized to me.

It was one morning in mid-September 2004 when I realized that it was the last time my family was ever going to have a normal life.

All is still vivid — like everything happened just yesterday. I had only woken up when my mother went into my room, rushing as if trying to turn the whole place upside down. I got up, still unsure about what was happening around me, and went downstairs. My father was sitting with his back turned against me, running his fingers through his hair uneasily while he kept sighing, his every breath sounding almost like a sob.

Was my father crying? I wanted to know. I sauntered toward him, patted him on the back, and slowly sat next to him.

The silence was deafening.

I started babbling about how I could finally ride the bicycle without needing to use the training wheels. I bragged about how good I was compared to my cousin, who couldn’t even hold her balance on the wheel. I giggled a bit. But my father only showed the slightest hint of a smile.

My mother gently yelled from upstairs, “Anak, kumain ka na, mali-late na tayo.” I still wasn’t sure what was happening, but I followed anyway. She eventually went downstairs and joined me while I ate. She told me to finish eating and that I should take a quick shower after. Although it was barely eight in the morning and my classes didn’t start until noon, I followed yet again, with no questions asked.

When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, suitcases that were as big as me were being carried out from my parents’ room. My father was moving around fast—too fast if you ask me. He was striding back and forth, lugging big and small brown boxes out of the house and into the back of the car. I rushed upstairs to get dressed, and our kasambahay came to braid my hair. She pulled pretty strongly, almost as if she was trying to snatch my scalp off of my head. “Kailangan maayos ang buhok mo, aalis na ang daddy mo.”

I knew my father was leaving. He was leaving for work. As he always did, every morning. Right?

I shrugged it off and put on my freshly polished black shoes. My mother called me from outside of the house. I glanced at the wall clock near the front door: 8:10. I dashed to the car with arms flailing and legs fluttering beneath me, and I jumped to the back seat. “Let’s go?” I had no idea where we were going. I didn’t realize at the time that we were about to go on one of the most desolate car rides of my life.

Unlike the jam-packed highway we experience these days, Edsa was not as crammed then. It took only 20 minutes to travel from Quezon City to Pasay. In mid-September 2004, we cruised the whole stretch of Edsa without any vexation.

It was my first time to see an airplane up close in the almost eight years of my life. My father, who did not speak at all during the trip, kissed my mother goodbye. Before stepping out, my father took me in his arms and let out the most resounding sigh. “Ingat kayo palagi. Mag-iingat din si daddy.” He hurriedly strolled away from us—from me.

I couldn’t cry. Yet.

The drive back to Quezon City was by far the saddest ride I had ever been in. My mother dropped me off at school with tears in her eyes. I dragged my purple trolley bag and stepped into the room; my classmates were already flipping through pages of their workbooks.

After school, my adviser asked why I showed up late. I couldn’t answer even if I knew what I had to say. I had to go to the airport where I dropped off my father. You see, my father did not tell me where he was going. Or when he’d be coming back to us — to me.

My father abandoned me.

Years passed, life moved on, and so did I. I grew up without a father, or at least without such a figure by my side. I never had the chance to participate in father-and-daughter school dances because I had no one to go with. I developed feelings for other people without his knowledge. My heart got broken. My successes and failures were all reduced to mere relayed text and video messages sent by my mother.

I see him once a year, but he doesn’t know anything about me. I don’t know anything about him.

It has been more than 15 years. All my life, I blamed my father for the things I missed out on in my early years. I guess I never fully moved on from his absence, which made me feel like I was never living my life normally. Now that I’m older, I’m more capable of understanding why things happened the way they did. Yet, at the back of my mind, that seven-year-old still exists—that seven-year-old who never got an explanation.

I wanted him to apologize. It never came, though. I suppose that’s okay.

I’m okay.

* * *

Deneese Patricia Montalbo, 24, is from Quezon City. She is a Communication Arts graduate from the University of the Philippines Los Baños.

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