Ayah, bapak, babeh, abah, abi, papah, bokap — there are so many names we use. Whatever we call him, he often ends up being that figure who’s not too close to his son. Yeah, boys usually grow up closer to their moms. Not sure why — maybe dads keep their distance on purpose, or maybe it’s us who pull away.
For a son, a father is someone to look up to, a rival, sometimes even a teacher. He always seems distant, so we never really get to know him. He spends most of his days outside, chasing opportunities — just to make sure there’s food on the table.
Every son carries this little ego — wanting to be better than his dad. The best version of his father becomes his dream goal. A son knows his father’s flaws, and from that, he learns — reflecting on what to fix in his own version later on.
Yes, it’s true. A dad’s never perfect. We can always find his flaws, even when we barely know him. We don’t really know him because he chooses silence. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t complain — he just keeps going, trying to be the best version of himself.
This year, my dad’s passed away.
I’m writing this to recall whatever memories I still have. They say memories only stay alive if you keep remembering them.
When I was born, my dad was 34. That means I never knew half of his life.
When I was about four, one evening after work, Dad took me to Kalibata Mall. He bought me a pair of yellow roller skates — yeay!
He worked in construction. His car was an old Kijang pickup, somehow fitting five people in the front seat. Every Eid, we’d drive to Sukabumi in that car, sometimes stopping by Pelabuhan Ratu.
I remember he went to college again when I was around eight. Mom used to say, if it weren’t for the financial crisis back then, our family would’ve lived better. He got laid off at 42 — an age when finding a new job gets really tough.
After that, he opened a small computer rental business in Lenteng Agung with a friend. I still remember walking along the train tracks to visit him there.
Then he worked freelance — architecture and other odd jobs. Once, he came home bringing me a pair of fake Adidas soccer shoes he bought from a street vendor near Kramat Jati. I was obsessed with local soccer tournaments back then.
But age doesn’t lie — work got slower, projects fewer. He started competing with younger architects, and when things got tight, he taught math and physics as an honorary teacher at a private school. He had taught before too — at SMA 51 — the place where he met my mom.
I went to SDN 06 Batu Ampar Condet, right next to that high school, from grades 1 to 4. Then I moved to SDN 02 Cipayung in 5th grade. Didn’t like it at first — I was used to being near Mom’s workplace. One day, Dad waited outside the school gate just to make sure I was doing okay there.
During the Tamiya craze, we used to build them together. Sometimes we’d tweak the motors — never made the fastest one, though, haha.
In elementary school, he always helped me with craft projects. In middle school, my elective was electronics — he’d guide me whenever I had to solder or assemble something. He was pretty good with electrical stuff — maybe because his family once owned an electronics store in Sukabumi.
We used to hang out a lot at Graha Cijantung, and our favorite food there was Soto Betawi from “Poci” — Pojok Cijantung.
Once in junior high, public transport broke down, so I had to walk home from Ceger to Cilangkap. Somewhere around Jalan Bina Marga, Dad suddenly showed up on his Suzuki Thunder — turns out he came to pick me up.
After high school, I went to college in Jatinangor. Around that time, he got a decent project building a private house. He used the money to buy me a pink Honda Beat so I could get around campus easily.
When he was about 55, he went back to school again — this time for his master’s in education.
During my bachelor’s graduation, he couldn’t come — he was in teacher certification quarantine. But that’s okay. I understood.
One day, he had a heart attack at home. It was just the two of us. That was the first time I ever saw him in pain. He’d never been seriously ill before. But after Mom passed, his health slowly declined.
The day before my wedding, he was hospitalized. He insisted on checking out just so he could attend the ceremony.
In his final years, Dad was still teaching. An honorary teacher — earning just enough to get by. I used to wonder, “Why would he do that for such little pay?” I even asked him once, but he never really explained. I figured maybe he just needed something to keep him busy. During COVID, he taught via Zoom. Sometimes I’d glance at his students’ faces on screen — and then I understood. Not everyone gets to study at a good school with high tuition. Maybe Dad just wanted to fill that gap.
At the end of March 2025, my dad passed away.
He was never a perfect father,
but he was there.
And sometimes, that’s all we really need —
someone who’s there.
Happy Father’s Day.
