My father was the first one I greeted today when I woke up at ten in the morning. Hey, it’s the weekend, so I get to sleep in late. My dad’s not really very communicative. When I called him up this morning, there were no tearful “I love you dad” or “You’re the best dad!” He’s the kind to say “Thank you” and then move on to the next topic. He’s not really emotional. I used to think I got that from him. When I was a kid, I wasn’t the type to get easily carried away by my emotions. But as I grew older, I was fighting hard not to cry at mushy movie scenes. So, I suppose, my mother’s gene came through.
Unlike others, I wouldn’t claim that my father’s perfect. He’s just like any other human being: he’s flawed. I’ll be the first to attest to that. Of course, there was a time when I thought my dad was superman. I mean, he certainly could drive like a speeding bullet. But I suppose even superman has some frailties. After all, he is susceptible to the weakening powers of kryptonite.
It wasn’t too long ago when I first learned of my father’s indiscretion and it’s permanent effect. It was during the summer back when I was in college. One night, he called me over and casually dropped the bomb on me, as if talking about it was as normal as talking about the weather. He explained why he did it…but of course, I didn’t buy that excuse. He promised he wouldn’t do that again, saying my mother deserved nothing but the best that he could give her. And yet, years later, another confession, another permanent effect.
I used to be mad at him, for doing what he did when he said he wouldn’t. But before long, I realized it wouldn’t do me any good. He is my father, after all. No matter what happened, it doesn’t change that fact. If my mother could forgive me, there was no reason why I shouldn’t.
Despite his flaws, I find that he’s tried hard to be a good father to me. And for this, I think he’s the best dad in the world.
