To call my family tree intricate would be a gross understatement. Growing up, I harbored a misguided notion that my family was a tapestry woven with secrets—one I loathed. It wasn’t until I shed my adolescent arrogance that I realized these secrets were kept and revealed with good faith and reasonable intentions.

My matriarchal lineage could easily be cast in a soap opera. I’ll spare you the convoluted details lest I confuse you further; this tale might flow better with illustrations, but no way am I putting in that effort. Anyway, my grandmother had three husbands in her lifetime. Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of knowing her, as she passed away when my mother was still in grade school. Stories of her seeped through the family fabric, and I often imagined we would have shared a deep bond had she lived. From her first husband, she had two children; from her second, another two; and from her final marriage, one daughter—my mother. All five of her children formed a tight-knit pack of siblings. I’m sure they bickered and squabbled like any normal siblings, yet I’ve never sensed any animosity among them. Perhaps they kept it a secret, or maybe they simply got along remarkably well. Regardless, they coexisted harmoniously, despite their varied paternity.

In contrast, my patriarchal side is a much simpler affair—one that involves not a single person. My mother left my biological father before I took my first steps—or perhaps before my memory began to function. My sister, Imeen, who is four years my senior, glimpsed my biological father’s world. Her stories often revolve around his artistic talents, though at that age, she might have considered peeling an orange a talent, as toddlers tend to find amusement in the mundane. Still, I hear he had an art gallery, so perhaps I stand to be corrected. I was told he was a college professor, had a receding hairline, and sported a pornstache. I was told this and that, always hearing morsels of half-truths filtered through someone else’s memory. Yes, they were recollections, but they were not mine.

Shortly after I was born, my mother became pregnant with a man named Veniedo Reyes. I can’t pinpoint when he entered our lives; all I know is that he has always been a constant. He was there when I was born. He was there at my baptism. After nine months, my mom welcomed my sister, Nev, followed by my brothers, JV and JR. I bristle at the term “half-siblings,” as it belittles the bonds we share. That prefix diminishes the essence of brother and sister; nothing could be further from the truth. I do not have half-brothers or half-sisters; I have brothers and sisters, period. These people shape who I am, and I will love them fiercely for the rest of my life. One thing I cherish most about my family is our palpable love for one another, expressed not just in words but in actions. In the midst of this history, my mother married Veniedo, and they celebrated 25 years of marriage on December 8, 2013. I could easily delve into their love story, but I digress. This is more about my love story with Veniedo, my dad, my father.

Unlike many, my childhood memories are more like a foggy dreamscape, but one figure stands out like a beacon through the mist: my true father, Veniedo. This man was the vigilant gatekeeper of our household, ever watchful of the mischief that bubbled up from our youthful imaginations. His relentless nagging about homework and his tireless quest to make vegetables seem like the most thrilling food group possible could have earned him a PhD in parental supervision. Stern yet fair, he was the moral lighthouse guiding our ship through the treacherous waters of childhood.

Generosity flowed from him like a river—one that’s been well-fed by rain and the occasional corporate bonus. A self-made man who climbed the corporate ladder without losing his grip on humility, he remains my steadfast moral compass, pointing true north even when I’m navigating the stormy seas of adulthood.

Sundays were sacred in our household. He would return home straight from work, wearing the invisible cape of loyalty, never once betraying my mother’s trust. Their love was like a public display of affection that would make even the most romantic of poets blush—holding hands in public, as if they were the only two people in the world. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and it’s a big heart. He’s the kind of man who bravely displays his emotions, unashamed, regardless of the audience. He accepted people for who they are, with an open heart and a welcoming smile. His acceptance has been my rocket fuel, giving me the courage to dazzle the world with my true self.

While my dad is a solid father figure, adolescence was nonetheless a whirlwind for me, especially when it came to my identity. I grappled with confusing surnames and the unsettling realization that the father I’d always known might not be my biological one. This thought gnawed at me, raising a storm of questions: Who am I really? What does this name mean for me? I felt a wave of anger toward my mother. Shouldn’t I deserve to know my truth? The secrets she kept felt like heavy weights, trapping me in confusion. I wanted answers, not vague reassurances. Each time I pressed her for clarity, I was met with silence or half-truths, and the frustration bubbled over.

As I sorted through my emotions, I started to grasp that identity isn’t just about names or bloodlines. It’s about the relationships I formed and the experiences I had. Still, the uncertainty lingered, reminding me that understanding oneself is rarely straightforward. Earlier this year, curiosity got the better of me, and I embarked on a digital treasure hunt through Facebook, searching for anyone with my biological father’s last name. I shared my mission with my sister, and within a week, my sister received a message that felt like a plot twist in a soap opera:

“Nemi is my father; he passed away 12 years ago. I know this isn’t the news you were hoping for, but I felt you should know. I hope it helps with whatever you’re seeking.”

And just like that, I crafted my first memory of my biological father. I can’t recall how I felt reading that letter; I had imagined this moment countless times, wondering how it would feel. It wasn’t relief or contentment—words fail me here. All I remember is that I wasn’t sad. I stepped outside for a cigarette, finding myself laughing—not from joy, mind you, because death is no laughing matter. I suppose you can’t grieve for something you never truly had. To this day, I haven’t shed a tear over my biological father’s passing, nor do I believe I ever will. I may never comprehend how a father can leave his child without a single memory to share, but I sincerely hope he was at least half the man to his children as Veniedo is to me. I hope his other children loved him, too.

Most of the world loves their parents because of blood ties—like an obligatory family reunion where you have to pretend to enjoy your Aunt’s soggy pancit. Parents raise their children because they are theirs, and it’s easy to invest love in those who are predetermined to be part of our lives. Yet, that’s not always the case. My love for my father is anything but ordinary. Though we are not bound by blood, no one has been more of a father to me than Veniedo. Today, I celebrate one man and one man only—whose love knows no bounds. By defying biology, I found a real father in Veniedo. I am his son, and I wear that title with pride. I may not always express it, and perhaps he doesn’t fully grasp the profound influence he has had on me, but let it be known. Words may never suffice to convey my feelings, but if you look into my heart, you’ll discover a cherished place for this man—this man who has shown me that fatherhood transcends mere chromosomes. This man, my one and true father, Veniedo.