by Rachel Ledesma (she/her)


Growing up, my mum, my white British mum, smothered us with cuddles and told us she loved us every day while my Filipino dad never showed us affection. He didn’t ask me about myself, he didn’t teach us his language. He was always working, working, working – and when he got home from work he had just enough energy to cook some food before falling asleep on the sofa. Some days he got home after we went to bed and left before we woke up, the only evidence he existed a bowl of garlic fried rice covered with a sheet of kitchen roll on the side. I saw dads and daughters on the street, hand in hand and laughing together, and I was envious. As I grew older, envy became resentment became cold distance.

But then, in my late-20s, a thawing. A softening with age, a new perspective through adult eyes. Conversations led to learning about his childhood - the father who died when he was six and the mother who busied herself with political work, leaving six grieving children to be raised by nannies. He’d never been shown love through hugs, so was it a surprise that his love for us wasn’t shown that way? I’d always mourned the fact I didn’t speak Ilonggo, but now I realised so much more had been lost in translation. The only love language he’d ever known was providing - a roof, clothes, food. Knowing this, the hours he spent at work took on a different form, and so did the meals he cooked. The fried rice he got up early to cook for us. The vinegary, garlicy adobo. The lumpia he sat at the table and rolled. I know now that these are his I-love-yous.

These are his hugs. I still don’t speak Ilonggo, but I’m glad I worked out the love language of my Filipino dad, because it turns out he loves me a lot.

by Rachel Ledesma (she/her)