Happy birthday, Papa.

Happy birthday, Papa. I love you so much. I’ve always said I’m your carbon copy, the ultimate Papa’s girl.

When I was little, I would cry every time you leave for Baguio to work. I always needed to see you leave. Even if it was very early in the morning, no matter what day it was, I would make sure I’m awake just to watch you get on the bus. Sometimes, you don’t say that you’re about to leave, but there are signs. You’d start folding your clothes and put them in your duffel bag. By then, I knew you were leaving, so I wouldn’t sleep at all so I could wake up the moment you step out of the house. Even when Lola scolded me, I didn’t care.

Because if I didn’t see you leave, I would feel awful. My whole week would be terrible. I would cry and cry.

Papa, someone else inherited that habit of mine—your eldest grandchild, my nephew. Every time his mother leaves, he would always wake up and cry. He doesn’t want her to go. But when there’s nothing he can do, he makes sure he sees his mom walk out of the house and get on the bus.

I always smile when I see him like that. Then I would tell him the story, that I was just like him when I was a child.