March 16, 1983: I remember that evening with striking clarity. My mom pulled up in our Mustang, the engine roaring louder than usual, as if the car itself carried the weight of the news. She was crying uncontrollably while trying to say the words: My dad, a fighter pilot, had been declared missing in action. His plane had vanished over the waters of Palawan.

I didn’t cry. I was too young to understand the full weight of what it meant. All I knew was that my dad was my hero, the greatest fighter pilot to ever defend the Philippine skies. Deep inside, I believed with all my heart that one day he would come back to us.

It has been 23 years since that night. Life has unfolded in countless ways, all shaped by that single, life-altering moment. For a long time, I blamed my struggles on his absence. Looking back now, I see how foolish and wasteful that thinking was.

Even today, I continue to hear stories about him from family and friends. Their admiration never fades. And I have realized something important: even in his absence, he never stopped guiding and protecting us. Through the lives he touched and the example he left behind, he kept teaching me, although I did not always listen. For that, “Sorry po, Daddy.”

Now that I am a father myself, I understand in a way I never could before. The greatest gift I can give my son is to live by my dad’s character and values. In doing so, I not only honor his memory but also strive to be the best husband to my wife and the best man I can possibly be.