MY BIGGEST GIFT, MY BIGGEST REGRET

02 June 2025

Lifted from Taga Lakandula

MY BIGGEST GIFT, MY BIGGEST REGRET

I was raised in Gibraltar, Baguio City.

Not the fancy side with cafes and condos, but the humble kind, the kind where roofs leak when it rains, where you boil water to bath, and your slippers are repaired with wires.

My Papa was a jeepney driver.

His jeep? Matanda na. Wobbly side mirrors, upholstery that had seen better days, but to him it was his treasure.

He loved his job.

He’d always say, “Nu awan ti agjeep, awan ti makadanon ti umili. Isu, amin tayo ket agserbi ti pagilyan, uray ania trabaho tau.”

I used to ride with him when I was small. I’d sit in the front seat, legs too short to reach the floor, gripping his worn-out jacket with one hand. He’d buy me taho when we reached town waiting for his turn to load passengers.

He made poverty feel like home.

At night, I’d curl up beside him in our tiny sala, and he’d tell me stories about the people who rode his jeep.

“Adda kabsat nga sinmakay ket ag apapa da ken appinpinukaw,” he’d say, laughing. And “Adda student kaasi piman awan kwarta na isunga inlibre ladta piman pamasahe na ta maka awid.”

His voice was warm, full of life, and I listened like he was telling bedtime fairy tales, except his were real, and they were beautiful in their own way.

To him, driving a jeep wasn’t just a job, it was a storybook of strangers, laughter, and little acts of kindness.

We weren’t rich, never, but we always ate together.

Early morning, nabangon kamin amin.

Kahit simpleng tuyo, itlog, o sardinas lang, masarap ‘pag sabay-sabay shempre with kanatis en diyay.

“Trin, manganen” he’d say, smiling with tired eyes.

I always came.

Always.

Until I didn’t.

My mother left when I was around seven.

I still remember that morning. She packed her bags while I was brushing my teeth.

No goodbyes. No explanations. Just silence.

Papa said she needed "space." But I knew. She was gone for good.

But unlike in movies, I didn’t study hard hoping she'd come back.

No.

I studied hard because I wanted out.

I wanted a better life.

I wanted success.

I wanted money.

I wanted to make sure I’d never have to count coins just to buy noodles, or pretend I wasn’t hungry when there was only enough food for my siblings.

I didn’t want to drive a jeep.

I didn’t want to live in a leaky house forever.

I didn’t want to end up like my parents… tired, broken, left behind.

That was the truth.

So I poured everything into school.

Elementary? I was the quiet girl with perfect attendance.

While others played Chinese garter, I was in the corner, rewriting my notes just to make them neater.

Papa once said, “Awan metten makitak kanyam nga apan maki ayayam.”

Behind every gold star and ribbon was a girl who just didn’t want to stay poor forever.

In high school, I turned obsessive.

No mall trips. No sleepovers. No school fair fun.

If there was an exam, I’d skip dinner.

If there was a quiz, I’d skip sleep.

Papa would knock gently at my door.

“Anak, mangan kan man.”

I’d reply, “Wen, damdma Papa, ipalpas ko lang daytoy.”

But later never came.

He started saving my food in the kitchen, covered with a plate.

Still warm from love, even if cold from the night.

Sometimes he'd say, “Apo, nag imas jay nilutok han mo man lang ramanan aya?”

I wanted to answer, “Pa, para kanyam met amin ‘to.”

But instead, I buried my face in textbooks and review notes.

College was worse.

I barely came home.

If I did, it was just to sleep.

Papa would prepare champorado in the morning, leave it on the table before going out to drive.

When I’d wake up at noon, it was cold.

Like the distance growing between us.

Still, he never complained.

He always said, “Aganad ka kanayun anak… Agyamanak unay college kan.”

Even when all he wanted was a few minutes of my time.

I was always top of my class.

Dean’s lister. Cum laude.

But at what cost?

I didn’t have friends. Didn’t go to parties.

I didn’t even attend my own graduation dinner.

Papa prepared spaghetti and chicken.

He even wore jeans and his only polo.

But I came home, said I was tired, and went to sleep.

“Sorry, Pa. Next time.”

Always next time.

I passed the board. Got hired in the UK.

Papa cried… his first tears since Mama left.

He told the whole neighborhood, “Ni Trin, nurse idiay UK. Anak ko dayta…”

I could feel his pride through the phone.

I worked day and night. OTs. Night shifts.

Sent money.

Bought him a house with white walls, big windows, two bedrooms.

Planned to give him a new jeep… green, leather seats sana.

He deserved it all.

I was going to surprise him.

We used to walk around Burnham Park when I was little. Just the two of us.

We’d eat ice cream, watch the swan boats.

He always held my hand.

He just loved those simple walks.

But as I got older, he’d ask me to come with them,him and my siblings.

“Anak, mapan kami magmagna idiay Burnham, umay ka met.”

I’d say I was tired or busy or had to review.

So they went without me.

Now I wonder, how many steps did I miss with him?

January 3, 2024

On break.

Just finished inserting an IV into an old lady.

Opened my phone. One message from my cousin:

“Trin… call home. Urgent.”

I thought it was the water tank again.

I dialed.

My sister answered.

Her voice cracked: “Ate… si Papa… awanen. This morning. Heart attack. Haan isunan naka abot.”

The world didn’t stop.

But I did.

I froze as the hospital moved around me. Machines beeping. Nurses rushing.

My heart didn’t beat.

“Maybe he’s just unconscious,” I whispered.

I ran to the chapel and begged.

“Please, ibalik niyo lang siya. Isu met laeng ti rason nu apay agtrabahoak ditoy.”

But God was silent.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

Didn’t get to tell him about the house.

Didn’t get to show him the jeep.

Didn’t even get to hold his hand.

They buried him without me.

He wore the polo I gave him for Christmas.

Yung “pang-importante lang dayta.”

That important day came and I wasn’t even there.

April 18, 2025

I finally came home.

Brought white roses.

Walked to his grave.

Knelt beside the cold cement.

And cried like I hadn’t cried in years.

“Pa… I’m sorry. I did everything for you. But I lost you in the process. Pakawanen dak.”

I laid the deed of the house beside his grave.

Placed a photo of the jeep.

Whispered, “These were yours. All of it. Pero ania met laeng gayam ti aramid ko? Puro late.”

Where will I use my money now?

What’s the point of it all now?

If I could turn back time, I’d eat with you more.

I’d sit with you.

Listen to your jeep stories again.

Hold your hand.

To anyone reading this… please.

Don’t let your love be “delayed.”

Eat with your parents. Talk with them.

Watch TV with them. Laugh.

Answer their calls. Hug them tight.

Because once they’re gone, no award, no money, no house, no jeep can bring them back.

Success means nothing if the people we love the most aren't here to see it.

And trust me, regret doesn’t knock.

It haunts.

— Trin