That Night, After the Defense, Professor Santos Came to Shake My Hand and Greet My Family. When It Was Tatay Ben’s Turn, He Suddenly Stopped, Looked Closely at Him, and His Expression Changed.

I was born into an incomplete family. As soon as I learned to walk, my parents separated. My mother, Lorna, took me back to Nueva Ecija, a poor rural area filled with rice fields, sun, wind, and gossip. I cannot clearly remember the face of my biological father, but I know that my early years lacked many things—both material and emotional.

When I was four years old, my mother remarried. The man was a construction worker. He came into my mother’s life with nothing: no house, no money—only a thin back, sunburnt skin, and hands hardened by cement.

At first, I didn’t like him: he left early, came home late, and his body always smelled of sweat and construction dust. But he was the first to fix my old bicycle, to quietly mend my broken sandals. When I made a mess, he didn’t scold me—he simply cleaned it up. When I was bullied at school, he didn’t yell at me like my mother did; instead, he quietly rode his old bicycle to pick me up. On the way home, he only said one sentence:

— “I won’t force you to call me father, but know that Tatay will always be behind you if you need him.”

I was silent. But from that day on, I called him Tatay.

Throughout my childhood, my memories of Tatay Ben were a rusty bicycle, a dusty construction uniform, and nights when he came home late with dark circles under his eyes and hands still covered in lime and mortar. No matter how tired he was, he never forgot to ask:

— “How was school today?”

He wasn’t highly educated, couldn’t explain difficult equations or complex passages, but he always emphasized:

— “You may not be the best in class, but you must study well. Wherever you go, people will look at your knowledge and respect you for it.”

My mother was a farmer, my father a construction worker. The family survived on little income. I was a good student, but I understood our situation and didn’t dare dream too big. When I passed the entrance exam to a university in Manila, my mother cried; Tatay just sat on the veranda, puffing on a cheap cigarette. The next day, he sold his only motorbike and, along with my grandmother’s savings, managed to send me to school.

The day he brought me to the city, Tatay wore an old baseball cap, a wrinkled shirt, his back soaked in sweat, yet still carried a box of “hometown gifts”: a few kilos of rice, a jar of dried fish, and several sacks of roasted peanuts. Before leaving the dormitory, he looked at me and said:

— “Do your best, child. Study well.”

I didn’t cry. But when I opened the packed lunch my mother had wrapped in banana leaves, beneath it I found a small piece of paper folded in four, with these words written on it:

— “Tatay doesn’t understand what you’re studying, but whatever you study, Tatay will work for it. Don’t worry.”

I studied four years in college and then went on to graduate school. Tatay kept working. His hands grew rougher, his back more bent. When I returned home, I saw him sitting at the base of a scaffold, panting after hauling loads all day, and my heart broke. I told him to rest, but he waved his hand:

— “Tatay can still manage. When I feel tired, I think: I’m raising a PhD—and I feel proud.”

I smiled, not daring to tell him that pursuing a PhD meant even more work, even greater effort. But he was the reason I never gave up.

On the day of my PhD thesis defense at UP Diliman, I begged Tatay for a long time before he agreed to attend. He borrowed a suit from his cousin, wore shoes one size too small, and bought a new hat from the district market. He sat in the back row of the auditorium, trying to sit upright, his eyes never leaving me.

After the defense, Professor Santos came to shake my hand and greet my family. When he reached Tatay, he suddenly stopped, looked at him closely, and smiled:

— “You’re Mang Ben, aren’t you? When I was a child, my house was near the construction site where you worked in Quezon City. I remember one time you carried an injured man down from the scaffold, even though you yourself were hurt.”

Tatay scratched his head, embarrassed.
— “Ah… maybe, sir. I’ve worked at many sites. We just did what we had to.”

Professor Santos’s eyes softened.
— “I never forgot that day. My father told me, ‘That man saved a life even when he was bleeding.’ I was only ten, but I remember your face. I’ve wanted to thank you ever since.”

For a long second, Tatay didn’t say anything. His rough hands fidgeted at his sides.
Then he smiled — the same quiet, humble smile I had known all my life.
— “No need to thank me, sir. The man lived. That’s enough.”

But Professor Santos reached out and gripped Tatay’s calloused hand with both of his.
— “You didn’t just save that man’s life. You built half this city — and today, you built this,” he said, gesturing toward me.
— “This young doctor, standing here — that’s your masterpiece.”

The room went silent. My classmates, my professors, even the university staff turned toward Tatay — a construction worker in an old suit, his shoes too tight, his back slightly bent but his head held high.

Tatay looked at me, his eyes moist but still bright with pride.
— “I only mixed the cement, son,” he said softly. “You’re the one who built the dream.”

That night, as we rode the bus home, he dozed off beside me, his head resting lightly against the window. The city lights slid across his tired face — the same face that had aged building houses for others, but had built a future for me.

I looked at his hands resting on his lap — hands cracked, scarred, but steady — and I whispered, though he was half-asleep:

— “No, Tatay. You didn’t just build the dream. You built me.”

Outside, Manila shimmered with endless lights — and for the first time, I realized that every tower, every bridge, every home built by men like him was not just concrete and steel.
It was love, cast in stone.