In March 2024, I became a father. Now, one year and three months on, I’m still figuring things out day by day. Curiously, I now find myself looking back more often than ever before – back to my own childhood with my own father.
In my secondary school years, I had a close friend who was both my classmate and teammate in our co-curricular activity, basketball. My friend’s father would come to watch all our basketball games and, afterwards, would talk extensively and openly about how he felt our team and my friend had performed.
Whenever father and son had differing opinions, they would have a healthy debate about it, and were comfortable doing so even in front of others. They shared a rapport that seemed so vibrant and dynamic.
My own father, on the other hand, was never the loud or demonstrative type. My teenage self might have described him as reserved, perhaps even stern.
He never criticised me in front of others, but neither did he praise me. Most of the time, he just quietly listened to me talking about what had happened in school and rarely voiced his thoughts or opinions (unless they were about his personal passion, aircraft).
But today, with a son of my own in my arms, I see the deeper truth: My father’s love wasn’t lesser for being quieter. It wasn’t loud because it didn’t need to be. It was reliable, patient, and quietly powerful.
SHOWING UP AGAIN AND AGAIN
Growing up, I had scoliosis, which meant frequent hospital visits and brace fittings. My younger brother suffered from asthma and often needed urgent care or hospitalisation.
My dad worked rotating shifts and took on as much overtime as he could to earn more money for our care. He’d take me to all my doctor’s appointments, wait patiently with his foldable chair in cold hospital corridors when my brother was warded, and after each visit for either of us, he would make a call from the public payphone to update my mother on how things went.
No loud fuss. No big drama. Just my father, showing up – again and again.
