What being a solo dad taught me about fatherhood

But there’s one photo that lives not just in my phone, but in my heart: She was just four years old, fast asleep under my office desk.

That was our life then. And when it happened, the first thing I did was let go of Chuchay's yaya, our caregiver. If she was going to lose half of her parents, then she deserved nothing less than the full attention of the one who stayed.

Don't get me wrong. Chuchay's mama, my ex-wife, was a good mother. Maybe she just didn’t have the patience—the grace—to stay with someone like me.

So I brought Chuchay to work almost every day. And every day, my former boss and lifelong mentor, Jessica Soho, made sure we were seen, not just tolerated. She didn’t just allow it, she welcomed it. She even had a tiny wooden table and chair placed inside my cubicle. “Chuchay’s office,” we called it. That small corner held my entire world.

Looking back, I realize I was never truly alone. My mother, my father, my siblings, relatives, friends, teachers, colleagues, and even strangers helped carry the weight and became part of our story in their quiet way.

My late father Alfredo was not a man of many words, but he was always there. A silent presence but loud in principle. He drove Chuchay to school when I couldn’t and held her hand when mine was full. He didn’t give advice—he gave time, service, and steadfast presence.

He was the humblest man I have ever known, calm in his strength, gentle in his wisdom, and unwavering in his love for our family. He never asked for much, never boasted, never demanded to be seen, but to us, he was everything. He believed in me and cheered me on quietly, even during the times I doubted myself. And though he never said he was proud, I know he always was. I felt it in the way he looked at me, in the steady support he gave, in the sacrifices he made without ever asking for recognition. But the truth is—I’m even more proud of him, of the life he lived with honesty and dignity, how he raised us, guided us, and taught us that real strength lies in kindness and humility.

And in those silent gestures, I found a blueprint I hadn’t realized I was following. So much of the father I became, I owe to the father I had.

Inside that newsroom—between news scripts and baby snacks, deadlines and nap times—I was learning something sacred: Fatherhood isn’t about having the answers. It’s about staying even when every part of you wants to run, even when you don’t know how. It’s about presence, not perfection.

It’s about service, too. I used to handwash Chuchay’s uniform at night and hang it in the bathroom to dry, especially during the rainy season. I’d also get special requests: to cook her favorite food, or little notes like this one she once sent me through Messenger when she was 11: “Pa, pls plancha my uniform.” 

This year, Chuchay turned eighteen. She’s loving, wise beyond her age, and fierce in the best way. Everything I hoped for and everything she was always meant to be.

And me? I’m still here. Still the father who once waited patiently for her to wake up under a desk. Still trying to become the man she already believes I am.

They say children grow up to become like their parents, but when you're a solo parent, you grow up right alongside your child. You learn how to play again, to find joy in the smallest things, to love unconditionally, and to trust without question.

You don’t know it yet, but that little one asleep beside you? They’re going to be your greatest teacher.

If there is one piece of advice I can give to the fathers raising children on their own, it is this: Stay. Your strength is measured not in grand gestures, but in the faithful, daily choice to keep going—out of love, out of duty, and sometimes, out of nothing but sheer will.

This Father’s Day, we don’t need fanfare. We just need the reminder: We stayed and we showed up.

Somewhere between a small table and our biggest fears, a life was built steadily, fully, and with more love than we ever imagined.

And to all solo parents—mothers, fathers, grandparents, guardians—who carry double the load with half the rest: You are seen. You are honored. You are not invisible.

Your sacrifices may go unrecognized by the world, but never by the ones who matter most. This is your story, too.

So stay.