As I concluded the last syllable of my defense, I was struck by a wave of loud, harsh applause that reverberated throughout the auditorium. All at once, I was stripped of years of fatigue. Every bruise I’d sustained along the way, including late nights, leased rooms, empty wallets, and self-doubt, was suddenly worthwhile.
People rushed forward to congratulate me, shake my hand, and snap pictures. However, my gaze naturally strayed to the rear of the space.
He was there.
Tatay Ben, my father by every deed that counted, but not by blood, was sitting rigidly in a borrowed suit, holding a hat he wasn’t used to wearing. His hands were too rough for the smooth cloth, and his shoulders were too wide for the jacket, but his eyes—God, his eyes—glowed with a pride so intense it was nearly painful to look at.
He stood clumsily, uncertain whether to bow, grin, or walk away when I gestured to him. Suddenly, a man who had lived his whole life fitting in with construction sites finds himself in a room full of esteemed academics.
My committee head, Professor Santos, approached him. I anticipated courteous congrats.
Rather, the lecturer froze.
With an expression that I had only ever seen people wear when they face a memory they never imagined they would see again, he gazed at Tatay.
“Sir… Are you Ben Turner? He inquired quietly.
Tatay blinked, perplexed. “Yes, sir, but—”
The professor said, “I remember you.” “I was sixteen years old. In Quezon City, my father was a construction worker. One of the scaffolds fell. They were yelling. Dust all over the place. And you—
His voice cracked.
“My father was carried down on your back by you. You had a broken arm. You kept him alive.
The room fell silent.
Embarrassed, Tatay bowed his head. “Anyone could have done it.”
Santos firmly said, “No.” “No one.”
He then faced me.
“To shake the hand of the man who raised a doctor is an honor,” he added in a voice full of appreciation.
It appeared as though Tatay had had his lungs pummeled. Tears gathered but did not fall. He had devoted his entire life to labor that disappeared at the end of each day. He never would have thought that someone would openly and appreciatively recall him.
And for the first time in my life, I truly viewed him as an incredible person.
We stepped outdoors to snap pictures among the acacia trees. He asked me, “Are you sure I look okay?” every few minutes while holding the program booklet with pride. His jaw trembled from the intensity of his smile.
I had no idea that I would never see that smile again.
The following weeks passed in silence. Tatay went back to his usual routine, which included watering the garden first thing in the morning, fiddling with old tools, and sending me hazy photos of chickens he jokingly said were “training to take the PhD exam.”
Then one morning a thick, formal, embossed white envelope showed up. It was only when he opened it with shaking fingers that I realized it.
With wide eyes, he muttered, “They want me to speak.”
“At what time?” I inquired.
“The Community Heroes event.” His voice broke. “My story is what they want.”
He gazed at the message as if it would disappear if he blinked.
He declared, “I’m not a speaker.” “I have no idea how to stand on a stage at all.”
I assured him, “You’ve already done the hardest things.” “Living your life is more difficult than talking.”
He didn’t think that was true. Nevertheless, he appeared.
He wore the identical suit from my defense on the night of the event. It didn’t fit at all. He continued to fiddle with the headgear. However, the room went silent in reverence as soon as he entered the stage.
Taking hold of the podium, he began, “I’m not a man of fancy words.” “I construct homes. floors. walls. things that people pass by without realizing it. And that’s sufficient most of the time.
He didn’t falter even if his voice quiver.
“I wasn’t brave enough to save that man all those years ago,” he remarked. “His son was watching, so I saved him.” And I understood what it was like to grow up hoping your dad would return home.
The crowd leaned in.
He went on, “Tatay doesn’t know much about books.” However, I am capable of working. I am capable of loving. I am able to provide what I was never given. And in some way, that contributed to the development of a doctor.
It was overwhelming to hear the applause.
Tears filled his eyes as he left the platform. In a barely audible whisper, he remarked, “That was the first time in my life that people clapped for me.”
He told everyone, including strangers, that his kid was “a doctor now,” his voice brimming with joy, as we drove home under peaceful stars, stopped at his favorite carinderia, and ate fried tilapia.
Later, he remarked, “Do you think your Nanay is proud of me?” as he sat on the porch and gazed up at the sky.
“I’m positive she is,” I said.
He gave a nod. “All right. I’ll be able to sleep soundly tonight.
He stood up and uttered that as his final words to me.
My phone rang at 3:12 a.m.
A neighbor. Worried. out of breath.
“Your dad passed out. He was not breathing. Ambulance—move quickly—
Between Manila and Nueva Ecija, I ran all the red lights. When I arrived at the hospital, a nurse gave me a look that conveyed everything without using words.
He had left.
a heart attack. Abruptly. Final. Quiet.
The undershirt he had worn below his suit was still on him. His hair remained tidy. Beside him, his phone was open, showing the picture we had taken beneath the acacia tree.
He passed away while gazing at it.
My bones hurt from holding his hand. My strength pattern, those hands, were cold.
The whole barangay assembled outside our home by daybreak. Workers in hard hats arrived from every job site he had ever worked on; some were crying, some were praying, and all had tales of simple acts of kindness he had performed without expecting anything in return.
Professor Santos also arrived, his eyes puffy and still wearing the outfit from yesterday.
He placed flowers next to the casket and added, “Your father saved my father.” And he came to my rescue. He constructed far more than just buildings.
Nanay gave me an envelope later that evening.
She muttered, “He wrote this the day of your defense.”
A letter with dirty ink and wobbly handwriting was inside.
My son,
Tatay has returned to God if you are reading this. Don’t cry. I led a whole life. I gave you everything I had, but I didn’t give you money or a large home. Raising you was the simplest decision for me, even though you believe I made sacrifices. I have no words to describe how I felt my heart open yesterday when I watched you on that stage. Perhaps that was my final gift from God. Avoid becoming depressed. Be kind. Remain steady. Build your own kids the way I built you. Look at your hands if you’re missing me. I own half of them.
Your Tatay, my love
I shuddered and folded the paper over.
The procession on the day of the burial was the largest funeral our community had ever witnessed. As the casket went by, workers lining the road saluted him. His old bicycle was set up next to the cemetery.
One employee stated, “He rode this every day.” “He should have it.”
I put my letter into the casket as it dropped.
I muttered, “Dad, you didn’t build houses.” “You made me.”
In the weeks that followed, I felt empty. But in the end, sadness carved out a new purpose.
I now see him everywhere I go in the university hallways. The workers who clean the floors, the students who remain late, and the young men who lift big beams off campus are all examples.
One afternoon, I instinctively intervened while someone was having trouble with a load.
“Sir, you’re a professor,” he exclaimed, startled.
I grinned.
“No. I am the son of a builder.
Books are used to record some legacies.
Others are inscribed in the life a father leaves behind, as well as in the calluses on his hands.