this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on December 18, 2001.
Like any child, I used to believe in the miracles of Christmas. For instance, I believed that wishes were actually granted by the man in red named Santa and that he really observed children to find out if they had been bad or good. I always asked Santa for toys and dresses and chocolates. And I never missed to secretly wish for my father to be home on Christmas even if only at midnight of Dec. 24. But 20 Christmases in my life came and went but I never got the gift I had been fervently asking for.
Now that I have grown up, I have to leave behind the fairy tales, toys, childish games and my innocence. I have out-grown things which children do, but my childhood dream remains a fantasy. Still it was never really lost. It just kept sitting silently in one corner of my mind.
One of the most painful experiences of my childhood was when my classmates and playmates mocked me for being fatherless. I can still remember how it felt to go home crying because I couldn’t stand the teasing of my classmates and, oh, the look of pain and pity in my mother’s eyes.
One afternoon, I came home a mess. Some of the buttons of my uniform were missing. I told my mother that I had gotten into a fight with a classmate because she teased me about my father’s absence and compared it with her own father’s sweet presence in their home. Obviously I was envious of her, but being a child, I didn’t look at it that way. That time I prayed hard to Santa even if it wasn’t Christmas, to Jesus and all the Saints to let my father come and rescue her little girl. I even imagined him coming in Superman’s attire.
The best Christmas gift I ever had arrived too early or too late, depending on how you look at it. It came to me one day in May when I was nine.
One lazy summer afternoon my mother told me she had listed my name among the candidates in a competition among kids that was intended to raise funds for the community. She had always liked applying make-up on my face and dressing me up in gowns and pretty dresses. Her excitement rose as the day of the contest neared.
The problem came a few days before the contest when she learned that the fathers would be crowning the candidates. When she told me this, I sank into the chair in frustration knowing that I did not have one. My classmate with whom I had a fight earlier was our neighbor and I knew she would love to see me turn green with envy as the other candidates’ fathers went up the stage on coronation night.
My interest in the event vanished, and even when my uncle volunteered to do the job, I still felt sad for I didn’t think that there’s anyone who could ever take the place of a real father.
But miracles do happen. I was speechless when two days before the big event, my mother introduced me to a tall man whom I have never seen before but who seemed to exude a strange warmth toward me. My instinct instantly told me he was someone important. The questions that flashed through my mind were answered when my mother finally announced that he was my father.
My father? Her words echoed in my head. For some moments, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how I was supposed to act in the situation. Shall I embrace him? Or give him a smile, perhaps?
I just stared at him for a long time, studied him, stupefied by the fact that I was actually facing the man I had been dreaming of. His big arms would surely protect me from my enemies, I thought. I smiled as I imagined him running after those petrified kids.
I didn’t tell my friends that my father would actually be there on the big night. It was for me a special secret. I wanted to surprise them. My enemy would surely wilt in bewilderment and dismay, I thought.
On the coronation night, I was very nervous and excited, especially as the moment for me to take center stage came. I must have looked very pretty in my peach gown with flowers scattered on the hem and on the chest. You can just imagine the happiness and pride I was feeling as my parents, together after a very long time, pinned a sash on me. I was overjoyed. It was a feeling that was like no other.
The highlight of the night was when the band played a piece and the fathers took the hands of their little princesses for a dance. I was floating in the clouds as we danced and little angels must have been clapping their tiny hands in approval.
That was the first time I ever felt perfectly secure. No one would dare to mock or hurt me, I thought, I had my father to protect me.
It was indeed a fairy tale, a dream come true, the Christmas of Christmases. I prayed that time would stand still and that only the sound of music and the beating of our hearts would continue.
That picture remains vivid in my mind, framed and tucked carefully in my memory box. But then, music has its own ending, and there is a time for waking up from dreams. And so, like the time when he appeared on our doorstep, I was again overcome by surprise and numbness when he left a few days later. Once again, my world became quiet-even quieter than before. It’s always that way: the silence after a loud noise seems deeper and more haunting.
My father left with an indefinite promise to come back and the assurance that one day I would understand him.
Mother told me he left on a big ship. I thought he had been devoured by the waves. Sometimes I would picture him out there in cities far away, melting into the arms of another woman, surrounded by kids, enjoying an existence from which I had been completely shut out. Darkness fell upon my world.
Everything just went quiet after he left. I was engulfed by insecurity and sadness. I became an irritable, bratty child. I usually got into fights because I wanted to prove that even without my father, I could protect myself.
After he was gone, nothing could satisfy me anymore, nothing could make me really happy. Toys, dresses and material things would just make me forget my loss for a time but I never experienced the same kind of happiness I felt with my father. Excellence was not worth pursuing because there was just one pair of hands to clap for me and that was my mother’s. My father’s window was closed while my mother’s door was wide open, but I still kept staring at the closed window, hoping it would open one day.
Now, 11 years later, I stand tall and proud for having been able to survive even without the nurturing of a father. No one can really say that I am fatherless because I was brought up by a mother who was as creative and caring as any married couple in the world. No one can really say that I am fatherless except if they peek into my wounded heart.
The last time I saw him was when I went to Manila last Christmas. I went to their place and blurted out all the feelings I had kept bottled up inside me. As I shouted sharp and angry words, tears kept rolling down my face. I hated him and I hated myself for feeling so bitter toward him.
Father. Such a sweet but strange word for me. The punishing lashes of his absence have taught me how to face the world with strength and wit. It’s I who fixes electrical problems and lifts things that my mother can’t. I do all the things a father or a brother is supposed to do. It’s even I who decides on difficult problems. Maybe I ought to thank him for throwing me into a situation where I am forced to fend for myself and develop my potential, but I don’t think I can ever forgive him for not being there when I needed him most and for corrupting the times that could have been ours.
I have been forced to protect my mother and myself because if I don’t, no one will. I have to be strong and learn how to fight. I have learned that you have to stand your ground because if you don’t, others will sweep you away.
I have tried hard to make myself happy because I am not. I do things so that I would feel like I belong and I count. I seek thrills and adventure because ordinary things cannot fill this void inside me. I go to great lengths to fill that space my father has emptied. I try to find alternatives but no one and nothing can ever replace a father’s embrace.
Time has passed, things have changed and I have grown up. Maybe I have grown strong, but there will always be that scared little child deep within me waiting to be hushed by her big daddy. There will always be that little princess in me, waiting for another Christmas in May.
