Her father's stories

My friend's sister writes about her father's stories.

That I didn’t know much about my father comes as no surprise—I’m traditionally subservient, and I didn’t grow up asking a lot of questions.

Among my earliest memories of my dad was him coming home from a long flight and handing me a red umbrella as pasalubong. I vaguely remember my mother bringing me to the hangar and my father asking me if I still remembered him. I don’t know how these memories even exist, but they are there, as poignant as the aftershave my father wore that day.

You write beautifully, Ate Kate Pedroso!

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