For as long as I can remember, my father always worked. The first sounds that carried through my ears almost every morning were his footsteps, followed by the opening and shutting of our front door. He was off to work.
For as long as I can remember, my father worked. 7 days a week, almost 365 days a year.
I can’t say I know that much about my father. Aside from the basics, I never got to know him deeply. From what my aunt tells me, he was quite the ladies man all his life due to his incessant ability to serenade. Until he met my mother, of course. From what my grandpa once told me, he used to cry endlessly because his family could only afford white rice for meals back in the early days. Gramps concluded he was quite the bratty child. Seems like I inherited the latter part of my father’s traits and not the former. Definitely not the former. Continue reading On fatherhood