A Father’s Day letter

Hi, Dad!

I’m sorry I haven’t posted in time for Father’s Day. I’ve been busy lying around the house, eating fast food and watching movies. (Yes, Dad, your daughter is a sloth.)

Belated happy Father’s Day! I owe you eighteen years of Father’s Day greetings—but then, you owe me eighteen years of birthday and Christmas gifts, so if we should meet, I want a car. Or a condo unit. Or at the very least, an entire bookstore.

I hope you thought of me last Sunday even though I know you have your other kids to greet you. I mean, I am your daughter, even if we’ve never seen each other.

It makes me sad that I don’t know anything substantial about you. I’ve forgotten the way you look and the sound of your voice (we spoke on the phone once, but that was when I was 7 or eight years old). Even so, you’re still my dad, and I’d like to at least get the chance to talk to you.

So, Dad, if you’re reading this, wherever you are, drop me a line. Maybe you can get to know me, I can get to know you, and we can bond over my collection of Pugad Baboy comics, something which Mom said you both loved.


Ela is a twentysomething who is constantly getting stuck in self-destructive behavior and bouts of low self-esteem. She struggles with depression and writes to relieve herself of her feelings. Sometimes she even blogs about other things like makeup and positivity. One of her pieces was published in the Inquirer Young Blood in October 2017. She likes cats, dogs, and sometimes even people.

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