Favorite

Conversations with my Father

“Dad is asking why you aren’t coming home next month when everybody else is. You’re his favorite.” Mom texted earlier this summer.
“I’ll be in China, Mom. Besides you won’t miss me; it’ll be a full house,” I replied casually.

After Dad died, Mom hugged me tightly. “I’m so glad you were in Hong Kong with him. You were his favorite,” she said.
This time, I addressed the elephant in the sentence. “Mom, next time you talk about favorites, please make sure my siblings are around to hear.”

—

Although I am not quite sure about this “being the favorite” thing.

Tonito is the eldest and only son among the five children — two points for him. He was also the sports wunderkind whom Dad, as a frustrated athlete, lived vicariously through. As such, Tonito could do no wrong. Despite the fact that he did many wrong — he totaled a car; he crashed into a tricycle; he delivered an “epic” best man’s speech in a high-profile wedding that basically ruined Dad’s good name. And yet Dad was always there, deep breathing and damage-controlling the trail of chaos that Tonito created.

I am the first daughter. I was be-dimpled and relatively docile compared to Tonito. I could have been the golden child. But Ela arrived two years later, and stole half the show — whatever show I had. Because Dad was never around. He was always traveling for work, but whenever he came home, he brought two identical things — one for me, one for Ela — bracelets, costumes, Korean duty free dolls. Then Aileen came four years later, and forget it. We became a three-headed pony that Dad tried to father as best as he could. The two identical gifts became three. During the rare times he was home, he held our hands, he soothed us when Mom was being unreasonable, and he eventually saw our distinct personalities: he gave me spiritual books (go figure), he helped Ela get out of school trouble, and he made Aileen sing everywhere. For being an absentee Dad, he magically made us feel loved and seen. He was our hero.

Lex is the youngest. She differentiated herself by arriving ten years later, when the parents were tired of parenting and Dad’s work kept him local. While we older kids stayed in Manila for school and eventually flew the nest, Lex moved with the parents to Subic when Dad was appointed its head. Dad became a real family man with Lex. He was present in all her school affairs, and she was made present in all their trips (“But Mom, I have school!”
“You’re only in third grade. Who cares about school?”).
The three of them have been inseparable ever since.

—

In early 2020, I went home to Manila for a visit. While I was there, I watched helplessly as the airports shut down and the world retreated into their holes. I got stranded in Dad’s hole, living within his walls for almost two years. This got me re-acquainted with him, my childhood hero. What I found was a man, retired from public life, still physically strong, opinions even stronger, restless to stay relevant, but fraying mentally around the edges which was affecting his ability to stay truly independent (losing things, forgetting how much cash he took from the bank or what business deal he had agreed to).

I was the bossy, nosy daughter who fought her restlessness by peeking under the hood of Dad’s affairs and found a giant mess.
“Dad, we need to fix your papers! I don’t understand anything.”
He welcomed the interest, opened the hood wider, and very generously let me in on everything.

That was how my relationship with Dad transformed: we “worked” together. From a hero and his adoring fan, we became like two grumpy old men on a park bench, getting a read on each other.

Many times, his Pisces, creative, dreamer nature clashed with my Taurus, practical, grounded self. And we’d yell.
He’d start, “Let’s build a resort on our cliff by the sea.”
“What?? There are no roads to that property! And who will run that?”
“All inconsequential!”
“Verrrrry consequential, Dad!”

Or, “This property is perfect for a small commercial building.”
“Ok, but we better get an architect to design it. It can’t turn out like your other buildings.”
“Hey! I designed those!”
“Precisely my point.”

We’d fight. I’d quit. Then we’d get back to work.

As much as we argued, we grooved. Our thoughts were in sync. We were the introverts in the family; the Ateneo “economists” who graduated with academic medals. So, we were often on the same side of a family debate. Without having to explain too hard, I convinced him to give up some of his hard-held beliefs. “He listens to you,” Mom used to say a lot.

But I listened to him more. Even with his faded short-term memory, his judgment was intact. I trusted him. I sat back, followed his cue, and let him lead. He showed me what Tong-style leadership and decision-making was. One day, one of his trusted men asked me to convince Dad to grant him an excessively large favor. I thought the request was ridiculous, but I was curious how Dad would respond given his legendary generosity. When I told him, he kept silent. The man kept pursuing over the days; I kept pursuing Dad for an answer. Finally, Dad said, “A non-response is a response.”

When it came to work, it was a dance with Dad. I held his hand through his memory gaps and disorganization. He held mine through everything else.

Besides work, we were also on that park bench in happy silence. Or giving our penetrating commentary on the world.
Watching his westernized daughters fail at disciplining their unruly kids with modern parenting, he’d comment “Kung ako yan, PAK! (If that were me, PAK!)” gesturing a hard spank.
“PAK! PAK!” I’d agree.

Or, watching the family frolic in front of us, I’d make conversation, “Who’s your favorite?”
He’d snicker.
“Just admit it. I won’t tell them that you said it’s me.”
Then I’d point at any random sibling, “I mean, c’mon, it can’t be THAT one.”

We’d also talk about weightier stuff.

“Dad, do you have any regrets in life?
“No. You make the most of what is in front of you.”
“Not one, Dad? Not one??”
He’d pause to consider deeper. “No. None.”
“Really? Not even your . . . wife?”
We’d giggle.

Or, “Dad, do you think about death?”
“Of course. Lolo, Tita Arnie, Tito Pito, most of my friends — they’re all gone. They’re all drinking up there without me.”
“Are you scared of death?”
“Not at all. I’m ready anytime.”
These times, I’d cry. Because his response felt personal: that he couldn’t wait to fly straight to heaven and wouldn’t look back. That he wouldn’t miss us; he wouldn’t miss me.

The world opened up again, and I left Manila in the fall of 2021. But I kept in touch and visited often, as I continued to be involved with Dad’s business. Whenever I wasn’t home, Lex said his most frequently asked question was “When is Ani arriving?”

—

Before he died, Dad was in a coma for two days. Though he wasn’t responding to our touch or voice, we talked to him like he could hear us. Late on the second night, before we left the hospital, I found myself alone with him. I whispered in his ear, “Dad, if you want to come back, we will be so, so happy. But if you’re tired and want to fly, we will understand. We’ll be okay.”

He died before twilight the next morning.

I was overcome with grief and guilt. Did he listen to me??

I was also crushed by a sense of abandonment. My anchor, my ally in surly but rational thinking, left me alone with the free-wheeling, gut-feeling, convivial extroverts.

And despite these, what continues to destroy me the most is that he’s been silent. No dreams, no feathers, no butterflies. No rainbows, no flickering lights, nothing. None of the things that signal that he’s around.

Tonito dreamt of him first. Lex dreamt of him a few days later.
I wake up every morning trying to remember if I dreamt of him at night. And every morning, I sit disappointed, silent, eyes closed, searching, waiting.

“Dad, where are you?” I ask. “Why aren’t you talking to me?
I know you don’t hold grudges, but . . . could you be upset that I let you go?

Talk to me, Dad. Now that you can see to infinity, tell me things.
Is death what you thought it would be?
Have you changed your mind on regrets?
In death, have you learned anything important about life that we should know?

Dad?

. . . Okay. I don’t have to be your favorite.
But I still am your child. And I believe you are obliged to be around me, to guide me.
You also better take care of Mom. She took such good care of you in this life. So, please watch over her.
Over all of us.

By the way, Kuya Josel promised that all our departed loved ones visit us in our dreams before the 40th day. You have four nights, Dad.

And Daddy,
I miss you — more than you, even with your infinite vision, will ever know.”

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*Photo by Maksim Goncharenok on pexels.