I want my dad to tell me that he could have done better

But, I know that’s not going to happen now;

My dad passed away recently.

Even writing that feels unreal—like the words won’t land properly in my chest.  He’d been sick for a bit and I suppose we, or I rather always knew that we would lose him one day. That knowledge still doesn’t ease this pain, I thought I had said my goodbyes, but I sit at my desk in tears, and feel a bit shy about showing my tears whilst at my work desk.

Growing up with him wasn’t easy. Not because he was cruel or absent, but because there was always this quiet space between us.

My dad cast a long shadow. He came from nothing, a house with dirt floors—and I know that because I was there as a child. I remember walking through that house, seeing it for myself.

He built a life marked by education, discipline, and success. I’ve been told countless times that he’s a pillar of the community, a role model, a symbol of what hard work and faith can build.

And I believe all that.

But he and I have always moved differently through the world.

When I was younger, I don’t think I felt this way.

At least, I don’t remember feeling like anything was missing. Maybe that’s just how it is when you’re a kid—you assume whatever’s happening around you is normal. And for the most part, it felt like things were fine.

But something shifted a few years after we moved to Guam.

Mom and Dad had to dig in to make the bakery work. I saw them working constantly, doing whatever it took to provide. And they did provide—we never went without food, shelter, clothes, or school.

But looking back now, I realize something else was missing.

The emotional part. The warmth. The conversations.

And maybe that’s not their fault. Maybe that was never part of the culture in which they were raised.

We’re a traditional Filipino family. And I heard that a lot growing up:

“We didn’t grow up that way.”

They meant love through sacrifice, not through softness.

They gave discipline, not discussion.

They provided—but rarely paused to connect.

Looking back, when I started pulling away, getting into trouble, or dreaming of a different path, I think they saw it as rebellion.

I saw it as gasping for breath.

I was labeled the naughty kid—always talking in class, always in the principal’s office, always doing something wrong.

There was that one Christmas when I tore down the nativity scene outside the church by swinging on the rafters. It wasn’t some statement—I was just being a kid. But the next day, I was back in the principal’s office. Again.

And yet, there were other moments, too—ones I rarely talk about.

Like when I skipped PE because I had welts on my back and the backs of my legs from the beating the night before.

This doesn’t mean my dad was a monster—he wasn’t. But our relationship wasn’t one built on softness. It was built on pressure, on expectation, on correction.

I remember car rides with him—going to the hardware store or some other errand. He’d make me recite multiplication tables the whole way. I still remember them by heart. That was his version of fatherhood. Structure. Mastery. Discipline.

In college, I studied music and earned a BA in Fine Arts with a focus on music. I started flying lessons and I remember my dad being frustrated with me. He said, “You’re forever living with your head in the clouds.”

He wasn’t wrong. I was a dreamer. If I were born a little earlier, I might’ve been a hippie. I didn’t want a corporate job. I didn’t want the 9-to-5. And I really didn’t want to measure my life by the same formulas that defined his.

Still, I tried to follow the formula. I got married. I tried to stay in the box. But that life broke down, and the divorce nearly broke me.

But something happened in the aftermath.

My kids—Chloe and Tim—became my grounding force. Even while I was still dreaming, still searching, they gave me an anchor. They, are the greatest things I’ve ever helped create. And I’m proud of the way we talk, and the way we listen to each other. I speak with my son, not at him. That feels like healing a generational wound.

I graduated from college in 1998 and began working at the bakery full-time.

At the time, I didn’t really have a plan. I wasn’t trying to fill anyone’s shoes—I just knew I had to do something. For a long time, I worked without really knowing if I was in the right place.

But recently, something has shifted.

Now, I do have a plan.

And it’s not just mine—it’s something that, in its own way, might finally align with what my dad hoped for me all along: that I’d find direction, purpose, and something of my own to build.

It wasn’t until I met my partner that I began to understand what had been missing all along. She’s a dreamer too, an artist like me—but more grounded. With her, I can dream without floating away. And with her, I’ve come to see that maybe I wasn’t the “bad” kid. Maybe I was just the misunderstood one. The one born into a house that didn’t know how to speak my language.

And that brings me back to my father.

I wish he could say the words: “I could’ve done better.”

But I know he won’t. Not because he doesn’t care—but because in his mind, he did do better.

He gave what he had. He provided, he built, he endured.

And he’s a good man, No, a Great Man!

A strong man.

A respected man.

Even with all the space between us, I still miss him.

I miss those car rides. I still hear myself reciting multiplication tables from the passenger seat.

Because I remember them—every single one.

And maybe that’s his love, in the only language he ever really knew how to speak. And maybe remembering them now is how I finally learned to listen.