The Man I Learned to Appreciate Too Late

Father's Day has a way of making me think about all the things I never said.

My father has been gone for years now, and every Father's Day, I find myself replaying memories that aren't really memories at all. They're mostly what-ifs.

The truth is, I never greeted him a Happy Father's Day.

Not once.

I never greeted him a Happy Birthday either.

It's not because we fought. It's not because he was a bad father. He wasn't. In fact, he did what many fathers do—he sacrificed. He worked as a seaman, spending most of his life at sea so our family could have a better life.

The problem was that because he was gone most of the time, I got used to his absence.

When he came home, his presence felt unfamiliar.

He wasn't a stranger, but he wasn't someone I saw every day either. There was always this invisible distance between us, created by months and years spent apart. Looking back, taking him for granted would be an understatement.

I simply assumed there would always be another Father's Day.

Another birthday.

Another chance.

I never stopped to consider that one day, there wouldn't be.

Death is strange that way. It teaches us lessons after it's already too late to use them.

When my father passed away, I realized something I had never truly understood before: nobody stays forever.

Not even the people we think will always be there.

Especially them.

And now, years later, I find myself wondering.

What would it be like if he were still here?

Now that I have a job, would I finally be the daughter who buys him a thoughtful birthday gift? Would I surprise him on Father's Day with something nice—not because I had to, but because I wanted him to know he mattered?

Would I have learned how to express the respect and appreciation he deserved while he was still around to hear it?

I wonder about those things more often than I'd like to admit.

But more than anything, I wonder what kind of grandfather he would have been.

I imagine him dropping by just to see his twin grandsons. I imagine him checking on them whenever he could, finding excuses to visit. I imagine him building little toys for them from scraps of wood, cardboard, or whatever he could find. 

Maybe that's where I got it from.

And maybe that's what grief really is—not just missing the person who was here, but missing the person they never got the chance to become.

I guess I'll never know for sure.

But if he's anything like the father I remember, I know he would have loved them endlessly.

The older I get, the more I understand the sacrifices he made.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the love that often went unnoticed because it wasn't loud.

It was a love that crossed oceans.

A love that missed birthdays and holidays so his family wouldn't have to miss meals.

A love that showed itself through hard work rather than words.

And perhaps that's why Father's Day feels different now.

It's no longer about celebrating the father I have.

It's about remembering the father I had.

The one I didn't fully appreciate when he was here.

The one I thought would always have another birthday.

Another Father's Day.

Another tomorrow.

If I could speak to him today, I don't think I'd say anything complicated.

I'd simply say the words I never did.

Happy Father's Day, Tatay.

Thank you.

And I miss you more than you know.