Papa.

Papa.

I think it's sad that we have learned to live without him around. I "think" it's sad. I don't "feel" sad. I'm objectively speaking. And that makes it sadder.

My papa is a seaman. My childhood was punctuated with his absence and his presence. But when we got older, the absence became greater. We learned to adapt until his absence became the norm.

In fact, it now feels a little crowded whenever Papa is home.

If he had been a better husband, maybe things would have been different. Maybe we'd have been what a family is supposed to be.

As it is, we've given him so many chances that we're... tired. It's getting harder to give him the benefit of the doubt.

That was what I was thinking early this afternoon.

But then again, after Papa called and gave some lame excuse as to why an unknown woman was texting my mother rather obscene stuff, I still felt for him.

In the end, he's still my father. Mama doesn't love him. My younger brother and sister are both indifferent. I'm on my way to being indifferent. But then I hear his voice and I can't help but love this imperfect man who is partly responsible of bringing me here on earth.