![]()
It was something that I, myself, would have chosen to give to Daddy. Against the greeting card’s black background was drawn a bright red heart with the words “For you, on your birthday” embossed in gold script on its shiny surface– not very original, but as a seven-year old back then, I found anything with hearts for a motif pretty. I knew, of course, that it would be my father’s birthday in two days. So this card could only be meant for him. I admired the cover for a while more before my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to look at what was written inside. As expected, I found the usual platitudes in the form of a poem concluded with a big “Happy Birthday!”. These were not what caught my attention however. What made my face scrunch up into a frown and my fingers clutch the card until I had creased it were the lines written in a childish scrawl not unlike my own back then. “Happy Birthday, Daddy. We love you.” Underneath were signed the names Erdie, Cathy, and Ernan. All of a sudden, there came to me a recollection of being seated beside my yaya as she was watching her favorite show, Lovingly Yours, Helen. Yaya was shaking her head as she viewed the drama unfolding on T.V. The bida was reading a letter that had been given to her by their family lawyer. Apparently, her father who had been recently buried had written it. As her eyes scanned the page, the voice of the deceased father could be heard stating the letter’s contents. I was playing with my Matchbox cars and the scenes on T.V. hardly registered. But when the father’s voice came on, I finally paid more attention since I could hear yaya murmuring expletives apparently intended for the dead father. Then I heard the voice on T.V. say an unfamiliar word. I asked my yaya what it meant. She didn’t respond right away. I knew better than to pester her while she was engrossed in watching, so I waited for the commercials to come on. When she turned to me, I repeated my question. “Oh, that is when your daddy has a child not with your mommy but with another woman.” The way my yaya said this gave me the impression that it was indeed a very bad thing for a daddy to do. I quickly slid the card back inside its bright yellow envelope – what had attracted me and made me curious enough to open it in the first place – and went to my room. When my mom and dad came back from the office, they found me lying on my rumpled bed with my face against my pillow, crying so hard that the pillowcase was stained with big splotches of my tears. I looked up when the door opened. When I saw both my mom and Dad there, I turned and buried my face even deeper in the pillow. My mother immediately sat beside me and started stroking my hair. “What’s wrong, Sweetheart?” I looked at her then. I saw the concern in her eyes but I also knew that she thought I was crying over some trivial matter – a broken toy or maybe my yaya refused to get me some chocolate from the fridge. The whole story came gushing out in between my sobs. I told her about the card, the Lovingly Yours, Helen episode, and most especially the new word I had learned. When I was done, still without looking up, I noticed that my mom had stopped stroking my hair. I turned my head sideways on the pillow, and saw her hand curled into a fist beside me. I looked at my mom. Her face was turned towards my father and it betrayed no emotion. My dad walked stiffly towards the bed. He sat on his haunches so he was at eye-level with me. I looked straight into his eyes – eyes that always looked at me with love even when I’m being naughty, for I knew I was his favorite among my siblings. This time though, he refused to return my stare and simply kissed my cheek. “Nothing’s wrong, Sweetheart.” He tried to soothe me, but his voice sounded strained to my ears. “You and your sisters are the only children I have. Your cousins in the province are the ones who gave me that card. You have not met them yet but if you do, you’ll see that they’re just used to calling me Daddy because their father had died…” Suddenly, my mother stood up stiffly and left the room. With one last kiss on my cheek, my dad followed her out. I huddled on my bed, feeling like I was lying on a block of ice. I unfolded my blanket and wrapped it around me. I wasn’t sure if I would ever feel warm again. Marby teaches literature at the University of Perpetual Help in Rizal. She is also pursuing her MA in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines, Diliman. She was a Fellow for Fiction at the National Writers' Workshop in Samal Island, Davao in 1999.
|