My Dad

My father grew up as the second-youngest child in a family of seven. He was an extremely independent and headstrong child, often playing truant to help his uncle in a garage. When he was 20, he left the tiny fishing port of Singapore to seek his fortune elsewhere. For three long years, he stayed in the oil-rich Saudi Arabia, striving to earn more money so that he could realize his lifelong dream of operating his own automobile garage .After investing his entire fortune of $7000 and ten long years of blood, sweat and toil later, he finally succeeded in building up one of the most flourishing automobile workshops in Singapore.

However he was still very much the workaholic he was in his younger days. In fact I counted myself lucky if I could see him at least 3 times a week as he often worked long hours, starting work while I was still asleep and returning when I was already sleeping. As such, we seldom spent much time together and I never had a close relationship with him.

No matter how busy he was, my Dad always made it a point to fetch me from school.
I remember the times in kindergarten, sitting there alone on the front steps while everyone else had gone home and I was the only one left, waiting hopefully for my father to fetch me home. However late he was, I always felt a certain sense of pride and joy when he came, rumbling in that old rickety car of his. Never mind that during the 1 hour journey I was the one chatting merrily on and on and he just looked ahead, and drove silently.

The same scenario was replayed many times in secondary school. Every time any vehicle approached the bus stop, I would stand up and eagerly crane my neck, trying to make out if the blurry figure behind the wheel was my dad. Although I was disappointed many times, sooner or later my father’s car would stop in front of the bus stop and I would rush elatedly towards his car.

As I grew older, I resented the times when my father had to work until such ungodly hours in the night. I remembered blaming him in my heart those days. I would plead and beg God to give me a better father. One who would be there for his kids; teach them how to shoot a jump shot, do tons of fun stuff but basically just expressing his love and warmth in a more open way.

Both Mum and Dad played different roles but it seemed to me that mum did everything.
She took care of all my needs, cooking, cleaning, washing and entertaining us. Dad? He was just the one who slogged long hours outside and put the bread on the table.
Whenever we had problems, we would go running to mum and she would listen, counsel sign and lecture us. The only time I went to dad was to get more pocket money.


Although Dad chauffeured me to school everyday even before the sun was up, in my recollections, those were long, silent and uncomfortable rides. Despite spending my whole life and sharing half my genes with him, I simply could not think of anything to say to him, and when I did, he never ventured a reply.
Whenever I asked Mum about why Dad seemed so distant and forbidding and whether he really loved me, she would always assure me that Dad did but I remained doubtful. I assumed that Dad saw us children as strangers in his home, people to be raised and forgotten, not to befriend.

However as I grew older and my thinking matured, I realized that he was not to blame. He had been raised in the straight and narrow way. In those days, all the men had to do was worry about supporting the family. No one, least of all his own father, set an example for him. He had expressed his love by working long, arduous hours to provide for the family and that way his way of showing his love. It was not my Dad’s fault that he never had heart-to-heart talks with his children neither was it his fault that he was perpetually late when fetching me home.

While I had always thought his work was more important to him that I was, I realized that his devotedness to his work was all because he wanted me to have a better life. Partly to blame for all this misunderstanding was me. Instead of being more understanding and showing more concern for him after he returned, exhausted, I had simply brushed of his excuse about there being too much work.

Now though, our relationship has greatly improved after I sat down and talked things over with him. With all our misunderstandings resolved, I got to know my father better.
He’s very easy to talk to and I find myself being able to relate with him and vice versa.
Instead of being the silent piece of wood I always thought him as; I realized that my father had a deeply sensitive and humorous side to him. We both shared a twisted sense of humour and I loved the anecdotes he could tell.

Finally for once, I could call my Dad a friend…