I am Tatay John. I am a simple father. I have no other desire than to raise my son in a home that is whole, well-ordered, and full of love. We are not rich. We are not perfect either. But we have given everything—time, guidance, advice, understanding, and concern—for his future.
He was still young, I knew he had a soft heart. Easy to pity, easy to love, easy to get hurt. So from the beginning, I taught him the importance of respect, communication, and family. I always told him that in love, he shouldn't just be carried away by his emotions. He should choose someone who will not only love him, but also respect the people he loves.
But one day, we woke up and he was gone.
There was no goodbye. No follow-up message. We have no idea where she went. All she left was a letter placed on her pillow. In the letter, she said she was sorry. Sorry for choosing to be with the man she loved. Sorry for not being brave enough to face us. And sorry for leaving us wounded.
There is no exact explanation as to why. There is also no clarification as to what drove him to do this. Only one thing is clear: he did not trust us with his true feelings. And he chose to leave the home that raised him, to be with someone who did not even introduce himself to us.
To this day, I don't know how I can be angry with my son, whom I loved with all my heart. I also don't know how I can fully forgive him, when it seems like he took away our right to be heard and to explain.
Inside the house, it's quiet. There's no laughter. There's no repeating stories. There's no son who always comes to me for advice, or even a simple hug when he has a problem.
It got me thinking: where did we go wrong? Where did I go wrong as a father?
I'm trying to understand. Maybe she loves that man. Maybe in her heart, that's what's right. But what about us? Aren't we also part of that heart of hers?
The truth is, I find it difficult to forgive. Not because of anger, but because of the weight of disappointment. It's as if all the years of sacrifice and patience we had for him have been poured with cold water. It's as if the memories of his hugs every time I come home from work have suddenly been erased. He calls me "Daddy" with such tenderness.
But even though I'm hurt, I don't want to close my heart to him. I don't want to think that he has no intention of coming back. I don't want our story as father and son to end this way.
So here I am now. I pray every night that, at the right time, he will return. I hope he realizes that he doesn't need to run to be understood. I hope he knows that even if he makes a mistake in his ways, I won't close the door on him.
I don't know where to start—whether it's forgetting the pain, or understanding his choice to follow his feelings. But what I do know is that I'm still his father. And no matter how many mistakes I make, my love for him can't be matched by any goodbye letter.
