I hate how my eyes see the fatherhood that I never had

Before, I used to visit my friend’s house and noticed how her father treated her like a princess. My eyes witnessed how caring he was, simply telling her, “Kumain ka muna, anak”. I stood there, trapped in a warmth that wasn’t my own, until I came home with evident tears in my eyes. It was then I realized I couldn’t have one for myself anymore.

Witnessing the ease of paternal care elsewhere leaves a bitter taste of displacement. It ignites a deep, burning envy for how the fathers of others effortlessly set the standards for their children.

It is easy to forget what is missing when it has never been yours to begin with. Perhaps that is why my eyes never lied. I saw them.

I saw how they were told “Proud ako sa’yo,” and “Kumain ka na ba?” I saw how they were kissed on their cheeks. I saw how they shared laughter and were asked how their day had gone.

To most people, those were ordinary moments. To me, those were the moments my eyes couldn’t even bear the ache. Those standards I witnessed became a measure of everything I had been missing all along. That’s why I hate how my eyes see everything. 

Every recognition, every graduation, and every birthday celebration — there was one person I searched for in the middle of the crowd. My eyes never seemed to grow tired of searching. Maybe I was still holding on to the hope that, perhaps this time — I would finally see him with my own eyes. 

But I was wrong. 

He never climbed those stairs, nor was he there to clap the loudest for me. And what breaks me the most is that he simply couldn’t be there.

Perhaps I have been so dependent on convincing myself, “Okay lang, sanay naman na ako — kailangan ko eh.” However, as time went by, the older I grew — the more it dug into my soul that those were never just moments. 

Those were the standards their fathers set for them.

He was supposed to be the pillar of our home — to protect us, guide us, and love us wholeheartedly. It’s his responsibility to let his child feel his presence, yet he failed to be there. 

People used to say that you can’t call a house a home if someone’s missing, and I guess they were right. When he left us, our life became incomplete, leaving me to survive on borrowed blueprints.

When I was a toddler, he used to remind me to always fight back when someone hurts me. I didn’t know that I would eventually use that advice against him. He remains my greatest what-if. 

What if you never abandoned us?

What if you stayed with us?

What if you never replaced us?

It caught me off guard, seeing you being a good father to others but not to us. He used to defend me, but now I am left wondering who will defend me. I know he wanted an achiever, so I studied hard in hopes that his mind would change and he would choose us again.

I am willing to forgive him even if he didn’t ask for any forgiveness.

I am willing to do everything just to keep his presence in this place.

I can erase every bitter memory from my mind, so he will never leave our side.

I tried everything until I lost hope.

“Kaya mo naman pala sa iba… pero pagdating sa akin — hindi mo magawa.”

That was when I realized how his fatherhood had never been lacking. He just had to simply make a choice — a choice I wish he had made differently.

He chose them.

He was always capable of giving me the standards I had spent my whole life begging for. How funny and ironic that he could effortlessly do it to others, but never for me. How cruel that the very person who chose me to live this world could deprive me of the dignity of what fatherhood was supposed to feel like. 

Maybe I was never enough. 

Maybe I was not worthy of love.

Maybe I yearned so desperately.

Yet absence wears many faces.

There is also a version of my eyes that knows what a Father’s love feels like. Unlike the standards I envied in others, mine didn’t last as long as I thought it would.

Remembering the moments we once shared has become the only thread I continue to hold onto. And I couldn’t welcome another tomorrow without rereading the pages we once wrote together. Even if moving forward can cause my tears to drown me — I would. 

I have achieved so much in life, yet I can’t achieve one thing that matters most: being with you again. 

Hugging my loss when the sky took you from us feels like sinking into the Mariana Trench. The pressure within me is unbearable, haunting me even in broad daylight. I once believed that grief would lessen as time went by. But I just got used to living with it. 

Grief is like glitter. You think you’ve wiped it away, believing it’s finally gone — only to realize it is everywhere — scattered.

When you left us, I lost my partner-in-crime — my kakampi in all of my kalokohan. When you left us, no one told me how to live, how to laugh, and how to love. When you left us, no one kissed my forehead and my chubby cheeks the way you always did. When you left us, no one reminded me I made a good coffee — a cup I would only ever make for you.

Yes — this is grief.

But I am beyond grateful that once in a while — we shared that thick foam bed, my head resting on your shoulder as we talked about how my dreams would take me one day to infinity and beyond.

And perhaps what I have been grieving all along were the standards you had already set for me — the ones that ended the day your life did.

Maybe in another lifetime, somewhere in the multiverse or within a parallel universe, there would be a sequel of the standards you had set for me every step of the way.

For the longest time, I thought the urge to pluck my eyelashes was nothing more than an itch. Maybe it was. But beneath the fleeting irritation was something far deeper: the quiet longing for the standards I never had. 

Some of us never experienced what a Father’s love feels like.

Some of us were fortunate enough to feel it, only to lose it too soon.

Some of us survived on borrowed blueprints.

Yet, no matter which story we carry — our eyes never lied. They witnessed fatherhood — in its presence, its absence, or its impermanence. 

Maybe we were never searching for perfection, maybe we were just trying to understand what a home, love, and fatherhood feels like. Because when hearts refuse to admit the truth, the eyes bear witness.

Whether it was the cornea, the retina, or the iris — it never mattered.

My eyes never lied. 

I saw them. 

And once, I saw you.