WHY

In the hush of the evening, I caught the familiar rhythm of footsteps nearing the front
door – footsteps I knew well, my father’s. It prompted an odd mix of emotions, pushing me to
hurriedly move and hide within my room. It struck me as odd that while other kids would
welcome their fathers’ return with boundless joy, I couldn't muster the same enthusiasm.
Back then, I was just a child, curious and questioning. So, I asked a friend “Why?”, struggling
to comprehend the differences in our lives. The world seemed complex and confusing through
the lens of my six-year-old eyes.
The sensation of freedom I currently experience is unparalleled. It's been years since I
last felt this unburdened and able to breathe freely. I am content with my current life; I chase
after my dreams and indulge in passions that set my soul ablaze. I have my own home,
welcomed a cute chow-chow, achieved independence, and reclaimed control over my
existence. While I am alone, do not misconstrue my situation as one of loneliness. Truth be
told, this chapter is the pinnacle of my joy.
I'd sacrifice anything to avoid returning to that house painted in plain, unfeeling brown
wood. Just seeing a similar structure is enough to make my stomach churn and my feet itch
to run. I was only a kid then, I had no one but my father. He should have been the source of
joy upon his return – the giver of small delights like "pasalubong", the conductor of birthday
celebrations complete with cake and song, and more. Yet, my reality couldn't have been more
different. Instead of warmth, I endured the touch of his cruelty, etching fresh wounds and
bruises onto my skin every week. Naively, I believed this was normal – a form of discipline
and, strangely, his expression of affection and concern. How could a young child understand
such contradictions?
My childhood was devoid of happiness. While the neighborhood's children’s laughter
echoed on swings and playgrounds, I remained locked in my room, watching the world outside
my window. Their joy became a distant melody, and gradually turned into a pang of envy.
"Why can't I join them in their play? Why am I here restricted to chores?" I dared to voice
these thoughts to my father, only to be met with a deafening blow, the memory of his
handprint lingering on my skin.
Growing up became a monotonous rhythm – home, school, chores, sleep, and repeat.
Numbness seeped in, accompanied by the painful realization of life's inequities. The facade of
pretending to be "okay" wore thin; it wasn't living, merely existing. This wasn't the life I
yearned for. One day, I mustered the courage to change my circumstances, to escape that
dreadful house and seek genuine happiness. The journey was far from easy – I learned to
move in silence to support myself, to evade my father's watchful gaze. Years of silence finally
brought me here – embracing the freedom that was once denied to me. I've built a new home
for myself, painted white and vibrant on the inside, deliberately overwhelming the memories of
that old, brown, wooden house.
As I look back, I now comprehend why my experiences diverged from those of the
children in my neighborhood. The answer is simple: They had fathers who embraced their
roles with tenderness and authenticity. In my case, while we shared blood, my father never
truly embodied the essence of fatherhood and paternal love.