Eight months. That’s eight long months. I’ve been quiet for far too long—if I hadn’t held my tongue, I might have said something that could have hurt someone’s pride. But I chose not to.
Let’s make this less personal for now.
I lost my father eight months ago, and that loss marked the beginning of all our nightmares. Should I share a story? A story that feels like you’re sitting in front of your television, watching a typical Filipino teleserye? You know, the kind where an “anak sa labas” is fighting for their rights?
I’m an illegitimate child, but I’ve never felt that way. My dad was there for me since the day I was born—he never left, not once. Whether legitimate or illegitimate, you’re still your father’s child; it’s just a status or a title. I realized this as a child. I was never angry about having older siblings from another family; even though I knew I didn’t have the right to feel that way, it didn’t matter to me. My parents raised me to never be mad about things I didn’t do.
I learned in third grade that we weren’t his “original family,” but I wasn’t hurt by that. Why? Because he was there, living with us. A few years later, I discovered we weren’t even his second family; we were the third. They started dropping hints, asking if I wanted an older brother who was about two or three years older than me. To their surprise, I told them I would love to meet him! Instead of feeling furious, I was excited—excited to finally have a sibling. From that moment on, I had a "Kuya," a brother who would always stand by me through whatever life brought our way.
At that moment, I was shaking uncontrollably, so much that I could barely grip the steering wheel of my car. I was crying intensely. We hear about cancer all the time, but it’s a completely different experience when it affects someone you love. It hurts so much to hear that a loved one has cancer, especially when they give your dad's life a "deadline," what we call a "taning."
The next day, Ken and I went to the hospital to be with my dad. I really tried hard to stay bubbly, but I think my dad could sense my struggle. I solemnly asked him to consider having a biopsy, but he declined, saying, “Baka yang biopsy ang ikamatay ko.”
After several days in the hospital, he actually started to get stronger. We would walk around the hospital, with me holding his dextrose. He would joke, "Pwede na akong umuwi. Ang lakas-lakas ko na, o. Tingnan mo, Monica, ang bilis ko na maglakad!"
That’s when I realized my dad was the most optimistic one in the family. After a month of hospitalization, we finally went home.
The first family then reached out to my dad, expressing their desire to be with him and take care of him. As a family, we never hesitated to give them that chance, but things took a turn for the worse once they took him in. Communication became difficult.
I remember going two weeks without talking to my dad. When I finally got the chance to speak with him, I broke down in tears when he called my name: "Monica... kamusta kayo ni Mama?" I cried so hard, fearing I might never have the chance to talk to him again.
Days and weeks went by, and we thought he was improving. He even visited us at home, unaware that it would be the last time we’d see him. Each visit filled me with dread, fearing that it could be his last day with us.
I always imagined him in his usual outfit: a polo shirt, black slacks, and leather shoes. When he finally came, he was wearing exactly what I had pictured—a checkered black and white polo shirt, slacks, and leather shoes. He could barely walk without assistance. I hugged him tightly, crying and trembling at the same time.
After that, he gathered all our employees to give instructions and discuss our family business. Once the meeting was over, he came to our house but didn’t go inside; he stood at the door, bowed his head, and prayed. We all started crying. Thinking about it now still hurts; it was the last time I saw him. I should have asked him to stay a little longer.
Another week went by, and we received news that he was back in the hospital. His health had worsened.
When we visited him in the ICU, I was shocked to see him like that. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing through a tube on life support. I couldn’t find the words. I cried hard, wondering if I was too late or if there was anything I could have done to prevent this. He wasn’t responding and was unconscious, but I still talked to him, repeating over and over, “Daddy, uwi ka na. I love you, Daddy. Uwi ka na, Daddy. Please. Uwi na tayo.”
Two days later, I visited him again and played a song that Martha had recorded for him: "A Whole New World." I was so hurt and devastated, wishing he could still hear Martha's voice.
The day after I played the song, Daddy passed away. I knew he had been waiting for Martha; she was his favorite.
I want to open up more and share details about his passing and the family drama, but I can’t.
I never had the chance to attend his burial, but I was able to visit his wake—just once. People know me as a fighter, someone who doesn’t back down easily. I would always fight to win. There were many things I could have fought for during this difficult time, but I knew my dad wouldn’t want that. I understood that he wanted to rest in peace, so for the first time in my life, I let my pride down. I just let go.
I suppose being an illegitimate child will always come with its setbacks.
I miss you, Daddy. I miss your voice, your laugh—everything! I will always be your little girl. I wish you could have been there on my wedding day. I know you loved Ken; you called him "Anak." I love you!
