He’s not my ‘Lolo’

I grew up answering these calls:

“Bb, how does this WiFi work?”

“Bb, how do you edit a picture in Messenger?”

“Bb, let’s sing this—Kenny Rogers.”

There’s a wide age gap between me and my dad, the kind people notice before anything else. My mom had me in her 40s and my dad in his 50s. Some people call that a miracle. I grew up hearing that word, though I didn’t fully understand it then. I just knew I was the youngest, the one who came when everything else had already settled.

Being the “bunso” (youngest) had its perks. My siblings were older, with lives of their own, and I inherited the things they outgrew. Gadgets, toys, even habits. My dad was busy building his business, and my mom stayed home and followed me everywhere, the kind of parent who showed up to every school activity without fail. Life felt full, even if it wasn’t perfect.

By the time I reached elementary school, things slowed down. My dad worked less. He started showing up more. My mom was still there, steady as ever. I didn’t think much of it then. I thought this was how things would always be.

But when I was 10, my mom died.

At that age, grief came in strange forms. I wasn’t just sad; I was jealous. Jealous that my siblings had more time with her, that they had memories I would never have. I didn’t know how to process loss, so I tried to outgrow it. I thought if I became older faster, it would hurt less.

My dad, already in his 60s, became both parents at once. He learned the routines my mom used to handle. Taking me to and picking me up from school, PTA meetings, and church events. He showed up in ways I didn’t expect, and for a while, it felt enough.

Still, some moments reminded me we were different. “Lolo mo ba ’yan? (Is that your grandfather?)” classmates would ask. Sometimes my dad would just smile and agree, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Back then, it stung. It felt like he was denying me. Now I think he was choosing the easier answer, and maybe even finding it funny. He laughs easily, the kind of laugh that feels a little out of place but warm. I end up laughing with him, mostly because his laugh is infectious.

As I got older, he didn’t seem as old to others anymore. People would get surprised when I told them his age. Now, he’s 70. He still stays active, still insists on moving like he has something to prove. Lately, it’s pickleball. He plays like it’s a redemption arc for our family’s unathletic genes. He doesn’t know much about pop culture, but he’ll sit with me and watch anyway, especially when it’s BINI, nodding along like a proud dad.

For a while, I let myself believe time wasn’t catching up to us.

But it does, quietly.

These days, I notice the small things more. He forgets passwords he just set. Misplaces his keys. Asks me the same question twice. His “Bb” comes more often now, sometimes for things he used to know by heart. And I answer every time.

There are things we don’t do anymore. We don’t travel far because he gets tired easily. We choose restaurants more carefully. I see families online going on trips, and for a moment, I wonder what that would feel like. Then I look at him and remind myself this is what we have.

Losing my mom early made me aware of something I wish I didn’t understand so soon. Growing old doesn’t just happen to us; it happens to them, too. And sometimes, it feels like I’m racing against something I can’t see. I want to graduate while he’s still strong enough to sit through the ceremony. I want him to be there for the big moments people always talk about. But life doesn’t follow the timelines we set.

So I stopped trying to outrun it.

Now, I just meet him where he is. When he forgets, I remind him. When he feels unwell, I stay close. Not because I have to, but because it feels right. I was their late child, their “miracle,” their “Bb.” And maybe this is what it means to grow up in return.

I’ve learned that grieving something that hasn’t happened yet only takes away from what’s still here. So I answer every call, no matter how small. I sit with him longer. I listen more carefully, even when the stories repeat.

Sometimes, he talks about the future without him. I still cry when he does. I don’t think that ever goes away. But I’m learning not to stay in that thought for too long.

Growing up with older parents isn’t something you choose. There are days I wonder what it would’ve been like if they had me earlier, if time had been more generous. But thinking about that doesn’t change anything. What I have is here, and it’s real.

Meeting them this way, at this point in their lives, is still a kind of gift. Being there in their slower days, in their quieter routines, in moments that don’t look big but feel heavy with meaning, that’s something I hold on to.

And on my 18th birthday, when my dad asked me to sing with him, we did.

Kenny Rogers, off-key and laughing.

I answered, like I always do.

—————-

Avril Nocos, 18, is a casual writer.