When the defense ended, Professor Santos came to shake hands with me and my family. When it was Tatay Ben’s turn, he suddenly stopped, looked at him carefully, and then his expression changed.

I was born into an incomplete family. As soon as I learned to walk, my parents divorced. Nanay Lorna took me back to Nueva Ecija, a poor countryside with only rice fields, sun, wind, and gossip. I don’t remember my biological father’s face clearly, but I know that my early years were lacking in both material and emotional things.

When I was 4 years old, my mother remarried. That man was a construction worker. He came to my mother with nothing: no house, no money—only a thin back, tanned skin, and hands calloused by cement.

At first, I didn’t like him: he was strange, he left early and came home late, and his body always smelled of sweat and construction dust. But he was the first to mend my old bicycle, to help me sew on my broken sandals without saying a word. I made a mess, he didn’t scold me—he cleaned it up quietly. When I was bullied at school, he didn’t scold me like my mother; he just quietly rode his old bicycle to pick me up. On the way, he said only one sentence:

— “Tatay doesn’t force you to call me dad, but Tatay will always be behind you if you need him.”

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

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

— “How was school today?”

He was not highly educated, could not explain difficult equations or complex paragraphs, but always emphasized:

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

My mother was a farmer, Tatay was a construction worker. The family lived on a meager income. I was a good student but understood the situation, did not dare to dream big. When I passed the university entrance exam in Manila, my mother cried; Tatay just sat on the porch, smoking a cheap cigarette. The next day, he sold his only motorbike, pooled his mother’s savings to send me to school.

The day he took me to the city, Tatay wore an old baseball cap, a wrinkled shirt, his back was drenched in sweat, but he still held a box of “hometown gifts”: a few kilos of rice, a jar of tuyo/tinapa and a few bags of roasted mani. Before leaving the dormitory, he looked at me:

— “Try your best, son. Study properly.”

I did not cry. But when I opened the lunch box my mother wrapped in banana leaves, underneath was a piece of paper folded into four, with scribbled words:

— “Tatay doesn’t know what you’re studying, but whatever you study, Tatay will do. Don’t worry.”

I studied for 4 years in college and then in graduate school. Tatay still went to work. His hands became rougher and rougher, his back became more and more hunched. When I returned home, I saw him sitting at the foot of the scaffolding, panting from climbing the scaffolding all day, and my heart sank. I told him to rest, but he waved his hand:

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

I smiled, not daring to say that studying for a PhD requires extra work, requires even more effort. But he was the reason I didn’t allow myself to give up.

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

After the defense, Prof. Santos shook hands with me and my family. When he came to Tatay, he suddenly stopped, looked closely, and smiled:

— “You are Mang Ben, right? When I was young, my house was near a construction site you worked on in Quezon City. I remember the time you carried an injured worker down the scaffolding, even though you were injured yourself.”

Before Tatay could say anything, the teacher was already…. moved:

— “I didn’t expect to see you here today, as the father of a new PhD. It’s truly an honor.”

I turned around: Tatay Ben smiled—a gentle smile but his eyes were red. At that moment, I understood: in his entire life, he had never asked me to repay him. Today, he was recognized—not because of me, but because of what he had silently planted for 25 years.

Now, I am a university lecturer in Manila, with a small family. Tatay no longer builds: he grows vegetables, raises chickens, reads the newspaper in the morning, and rides his bicycle around the barangay in the afternoon. Occasionally, he calls to show off the vegetable beds behind the house, telling me to go get chickens and eggs for my grandson to eat. I ask:

— “Does Tatay feel regretful about working hard all his life for his son?”

He laughs:

— “No regrets. Tatay has worked all his life—but the thing he is most proud of is building a son like you.”

I don’t answer. I just watch his hands on the screen—the hands that carry my future.

I am a PhD. Tatay Ben is a construction worker. He didn’t build a house for me—he “built” a person.