I don’t know exactly when it all began or when things started to change. But I remember when I was a child, my father used to attend every small celebration we had. Even if he could not make it on time for our recognition days, he would still come later just to be there and celebrate that moment with us. And when he truly could not, my mother would step in and fill his place with the same love and presence.
For as long as I can remember, he was always there in the ways that mattered.
He used to be the one who encouraged us to dream. He made us believe we could do anything and that we had so much potential. I believed him because he believed in us first.
I used to tell him everything, even the small and fragile parts of my life. I remember talking to him about someone I liked. I remember crying to him when that boy from senior high did not want me anymore. I was sobbing, but I still felt safe because he was there. Back then, I used to think that I wanted to meet someone like him someday.
He would even joke that I should audition to be an actress because to him, I was the prettiest girl he knew. Those words stayed with me more than I realized.
But somewhere along the way, things started to feel different.
My brothers recently had their recognition days, and when my mother asked if he could come, he hesitated. He would say that going would just waste his day and that he would not earn anything if he did not go to work. Every time I hear this, I do not know what to feel. A part of me understands because now that I am working, I know how much it costs to miss a day. But these moments only happen once or twice a year, and I cannot help but wonder if they are worth something too.
Even in small things, the change is there. When he sees us dressed up nicely and about to go out, he does not say much anymore. He just looks at us with a blank expression and asks where we are going. There are no more jokes, no compliments, and no warmth like before.
I also remember when I had an accident. I thought he would come with me and take me home. I believed he would be there the way he used to be. But instead, he told me that I could manage on my own and that it would just be an unnecessary expense for transportation. I tried to understand him, and maybe in some way I do, but those were the moments when I needed him the most. Those were the moments when I hoped he would show not just presence, but care.
And I miss him.
I miss the version of him who, when I did not know what to do, would be the first person to step in and help us. The one who would do anything just to make sure we were okay. Now it feels like something has been lost, or maybe we just do not know how to reach him anymore in the way he needs.
Sometimes I find myself asking if this is what love really becomes. Does it grow quieter, more distant, and less visible over time? Or is he just tired now, choosing not to show that part of himself because we are all grown up? Did he slowly stop rooting for us the way he used to?
I do not have the answers.
What I do know is that there was a time when his love felt like enough for me. When all I needed was him, and it did not matter if someone else walked out of my life. As long as my father was there, I felt okay.
Now, it feels like I am searching for that kind of love again. A love that feels certain, a love that stays, and a love that shows up.
That is why I keep going back to those memories. I hold on to them quietly because I do not want to forget the version of him who made me feel seen, supported, and loved so openly.
I do not know what changed or when it happened. Maybe life made him quieter in ways he does not know how to express. Maybe there are parts of him we no longer understand.
But I still hope that somewhere in him, that version of my father still exists. And maybe remembering him this way is how I continue to love him, even now.
