Maritess De Ocampo

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Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat and Family

<p>They say no one hands you a manual when you become a parent. What they don’t tell you is that you don’t need one—because you’ve already been handed something far more powerful, and far harder to return: a memory. The memory of how you, yourself, were raised.</p><p>I couldn’t help but wonder: is fatherhood the way a man loves his children? Or is it something quieter—the way he answers the story he was handed long before he ever became a father?</p><div><br/></div><p>None of us arrive at parenthood empty-handed. We carry the voices, patterns, wounds, and comforts of the homes that raised us. Some follow the script they were given, repeating what they knew because it feels natural, or because they never stopped to question it. Others pause and quietly ask: What do I want to carry forward? What do I want to soften? What do I want to end with me? And some almost in opposition to what they experienced, trying to give their children what they themselves once longed for.</p><p>This is what makes fatherhood so layered to me. It is inheritance and choice. Instinct and intention. Strength and tenderness. It is a man learning, sometimes imperfectly, how to turn love into something his children can actually feel.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781969660336Kat Tantoco Lobregat &amp; Family-In Article.jpg" style="width:609px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><p>When I think about fatherhood, I think of two men: my father and my husband, Paolo. They are very different—they love differently, lead differently, move through family life differently. But through both, I have come to understand that a great father is not defined by perfection. He is defined by presence. By devotion. By the way his children feel safer in the world because he exists.</p><div><strong>My First Lesson in Love</strong></div><p>My father is the first man who taught me what it meant to be loved.</p><p>Growing up, I knew he was a busy man. He carried responsibility, purpose, dreams of his own. But looking back now, I see that so much of what drove him was his desire to build a life for my mom and for us. His dreams were never only for himself. Somehow, his capacity to dream big always had room for all of us—and not only us. It reached the people who worked for him and alongside him, his extended family, his community, his country, and somehow, in his quiet way, the world.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781970585281Rico Tantoco with daughter Kat.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:560px"/></div><p>He worked hard, but his work never felt like empty ambition. It was tied to love, to duty, to the deep desire to give his family a life filled with possibility. And yet, what I remember most is not what he provided. It is how he made me feel.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781983685203kat and parents.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:428px"/></div><p>I knew my dad spent long hours at work, but I never remember feeling emotionally forgotten by him. When he was with us, he was truly with us. His presence had weight. His attention had warmth. As his daughter, I felt seen, heard, and loved.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781976231654Rico Tantoco.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:450px"/></div><p>He made joy a serious thing. He was a brilliant planner of the most experiential adventures—itineraries filled with discovery, wonder, and play, the kind of trips that didn’t just broaden who we were as people, but stretched our souls.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781970416735Rico Tantoco with daughters.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:459px"/>Through him, I learned that fun could be a form of love. That adventure could be a form of teaching. That a well-made memory could become a father’s quiet way of saying, “I thought of you. I wanted to widen the world in front of you—the way it works, the way it stretches further than home.”</div><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781985759826kat &amp; rico 2.JPG" style="width:577px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><p>But perhaps the deepest thing my father gave me, he never spoke aloud. I simply witnessed it.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781985635573Rico and Nena Tantoco Wedding.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:437px"/></div><p>I saw it first in the way he loves my mom. My parents have been married for 60 years, and my dad is now 81. At this stage in their lives, their love has not thinned out into habit. If anything, it has deepened—quieter, steadier, almost sacred. </p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781985706848Rico &amp; Nena Tantoco Today.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:445px"/></div><p>There is a word, metanoia, that speaks of a deep transformation of heart and soul. When I look at my parents now, I feel that their love has passed through many seasons and changed into something even fuller than before. It has endured. It has softened. It has ripened.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781977351820nena &amp; rico tantoco 2.JPG" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:367px"/></div><p>My dad is living testament to the proposition: that one of the greatest gifts a father can give his children is to love their mother. He is not a perfect man—no one is—but his default, even in the seasons when it would have been easier not to, was always to make her feel honored and cherished. Through 60 years of marriage, through whatever challenges came, that effort never disappeared. It is one thing to love someone when love is easy. It is another to keep choosing to honor them when it isn’t.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781977944983tantoco family.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:625px"/></div><p>In a world where chivalry can feel like a fading language, my dad still carries it naturally—not loudly, not performatively, but the quiet and unassuming kind that is most beautiful when no one is watching. Through him, I had my first experience of how a man could be, and only later did I understand how rare that really is. Without ever naming it, he set the standard I would quietly measure the world against. </p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781978524835family_tantoco.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:431px"/></div><p>Because of him, I learned that love can be strong without being harsh, that devotion can be powerful without being possessive, that a man’s greatness is measured not only by what he achieves, but by how safe and loved the people closest to him feel in his presence.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781978562858tantoco family 4.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:393px"/></div><p>Even now, as an adult, his love still grounds me and lifts me in the same breath. Through him, I learned what love meant. Through him, I learned how to receive it.</p><div><strong>The Beautiful Becoming of a Father</strong></div><p>And then there is Paolo.</p><p>I have watched Paolo become a father from the very beginning—a young dad, unsure at times, still finding his rhythm, until slowly, beautifully, I watched him grow into it.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781978771596lobregat family 1.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:381px"/></div><p>Here is a fun fact to know about Paolo and me as parents: we are, on paper, a slightly improbable match. I am the kind of mother who would happily raise our children barefoot in a garden, narrating their feelings back to them, asking how the grass made their soul feel. I am a touch granola. A little woo. The mom who has, on more than one occasion, made things weird at the dinner table with my earnestness—who can turn a simple “how was your day” into a full emotional excavation before anyone has finished their rice. </p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781982121808lobregat family 2.jpg" style="width:590px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><p>Paolo, meanwhile, is a traditionalist—conservative, protective, structured, the gentle eye-roll to my free spirit. We don’t always arrive at the same place, at least not right away. And yet somehow, between his structure and my softness, we seem to give our children both the anchor and the open sky.</p><p>Paolo’s love is more physical, more immediate, more embodied than my father’s. Our children have never had to wonder if their father wants to hold them. His love lives in touch: in hugs, kisses, cuddles, playful wrestling, the everyday nearness that children remember not only in their minds, but carried in their bodies. With Paolo, love is often something you can feel before you can explain it.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781984999293Kat Tantoco Lobregat &amp; Family.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:689px"/></div><p>I tend to question everything—out loud, at length, often to Paolo’s quiet bafflement. I parent from the place of asking: What did I need as a child? What would have made me feel more seen, more heard? What patterns do I want to continue, and what do I want to end with me? Paolo’s approach is refreshingly less complicated: be good, be respectful, eat your dinner, and we’ll all be fine.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781981235480Paolo and Xevi.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:376px"/></div><p>He believes in discipline, structure, and strength. With our eldest, Xevi, he has often brought the tough love in moments where I was softer—insisting on accountability, pushing harder, reminding our son that love does not always mean making life easy. </p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781981277318xevi &amp; paolo 1.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:470px"/></div><p>And while we may not always agree on the method, I can see the intention beneath it. Paolo wants our son to be strong, responsible, prepared for a world that will not always be gentle. His fatherhood, especially with Xevi, carries the weight of wanting to form a man. </p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781981815945lobregats 1.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:447px"/></div><p>And then there are our daughters, who have discovered the great universal truth about fathers: that the same man who lays down the law can, 30 seconds later, be coaxed into total foolishness. Joey and Malia have him completely. He meets them in their own language of laughter, teases them the way only he can, makes them laugh from that place only he can reach. </p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781981866705paolo &amp; malia.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:405px"/></div><p>There is something disarming about watching a serious man become silly for his children. It is its own kind of humility. Its own kind of love. With them, his strength softens into play, his protectiveness becomes warmth. Their laughter becomes the soundtrack of our home, and I have a front-row seat to it every single night.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781981909546ela &amp; paolo 2.jpg" style="width:478px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><p>And with Ela, I have seen something that is difficult to put into words.</p><p>Ela’s life has asked much of our family. Her condition has changed the way we understand time, care, patience, grief, hope, and love. It has asked us to become more tender, more vigilant, and more surrendered than we ever imagined we would have to be. But in the midst of this, I have watched Paolo love her with a devotion that is deeply moving. Ela lights up for him in a way no one else can quite bring out of her. There is a brightness in her when her dad is near, a spark that belongs to their bond alone. It is as if something in her recognizes his voice, his touch, his humor, his presence as home.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781981960987ela &amp; paolo.jpg" style="width:483px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/></div><p>And Paolo is relentless about her care. Day by day, through the exhaustion, the uncertainty, the repetition, the heartbreak, and the hope, he perseveres. He shows up. He worries. He protects. He carries the invisible weight that comes with loving a child whose needs ask more of a parent than words can fully explain. With Ela, his fatherhood is not theoretical, not sentimental, not only the beautiful photograph or the sweet moment. It is daily. It is practical. It is fierce. It is constancy. He loves her not for what she can do, not for what the world might easily understand, but for who she is. Completely. Simply. Because she is Ela. His daughter. His girl.</p><div><strong>Asking the Better Question</strong></div><p>And maybe this is one of the truest forms of fatherhood: to love a child in their wholeness. Not only in their strength, not only in their achievements, not only in the version of them that makes life easy, but in the fullness of who they are.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781984740633kat &amp; rico.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:390px"/></div><p>Because fatherhood is not only found in the grand declarations. It is found in the daily return—the showing up again, the caring again, the trying again, the holding of a family through ordinary days and impossible ones. From my dad, I learned the kind of love that gives a daughter roots. </p><p>From Paolo, I witness the kind of love that stands guard over a family in real time. Neither story is perfect, because no human story is. But both have shaped the way I understand what children need from a father: to feel protected, but not imprisoned; guided, but not unseen; corrected, but not unloved; known not only for what they achieve, but for who they are.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781982555925Lobregats &amp; Tantocos.jpg" class="fr-fic fr-dib" style="width:682px"/></div><p>It turns out the manual was never missing at all. The good fathers simply become the voice you read it in for the rest of your life. Mine still does. We spend so long asking what we inherited. Maybe the better question is what we will leave behind—the voice still speaking in someone long after we’ve gone quiet. If I’ve learned anything from these two men, it’s that the voice you leave is the truest measure of the father you were.</p><div><em>Photos courtesy of Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat.</em></div><div><br/></div><div><strong>ABOUT THE AUTHOR</strong></div><p><strong></strong> In this personal essay, Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat writes about the two men who shaped her idea of fatherhood: the father who raised her and the husband whose devotion continues to reveal itself in both ordinary and extraordinary ways.</p><div><img src="https://od2-image-api.abs-cbn.com/prod/editorImage/1781983231130lobregat family 4.jpg" style="width:390px" class="fr-fic fr-dib" width="960"/>A mother of four and a lifelong student of well-being, Katrina is drawn to the intersection of modern science, daily practice, and the small, consistent choices that help us live with more presence, strength, and care. She currently serves as Chief of Business Development at Sta. Elena Properties, bringing more than two decades of brand curation experience in Philippine luxury retail.<br/><strong></strong></div>

<p>In honor of Father's Day, Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat reflects on the two men who shaped her understanding of fatherhood: the father who raised her and the husband whose devotion as a father continues to deepen in ways both visible and quietly profound.</p>

In honor of Father's Day, Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat reflects on the two men who shaped her understanding of fatherhood: the father who raised her and the husband whose devotion as a father continues to deepen in ways both visible and quietly profound.

Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat: What fatherhood looks like through my eyes

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Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat: What fatherhood looks like through my eyes

Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat

Published June 21, 2026 03:24 AM PHT

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Updated June 21, 2026 04:02 AM PHT

Read More:

Father's Day 2026

Fatherhood Through My Eyes

Katrina Tantoco-Lobregat

Fatherhood

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