I still remember how the celebration meals for my achievements were simple—three little crabs for five hungry people. Not fancy, not extravagant, just three modest crabs sitting in a bowl, steaming and fragrant. It wasn’t much, but somehow, it was everything.

This is the 8th father’s day and birthday without him. I’m going through so many things in life and it makes me miss my dad so much because he celebrated our achievements whenever he could. He was unabashedly our number one fan. Something about him just being there made me feel things were gonna be ok even when they didn’t work out how we wanted. 

So… Back to the crabs.

My papa would sit at the table with the patience of a saint, cracking and peeling and picking at every tiny crevice to get the meat out. He rarely ate. I even thought he didn’t like them. Instead, he’d quietly pile little mounds of crab meat onto our plates—me and my siblings—making sure we each got a taste. Sometimes, just one or two bites. But they were golden. They were the treats that they were presented to be.

My mom, on the other hand, would take her share and work a bit of magic. She’d dip it in a sauce she made from memory—spicy, tangy, perfect and feed us those tiny, perfect morsels with her fingers. I swear they tasted better that way. Like love had a flavor and it was made of garlic, chili, and sacrifice. I've never quite figured out why her subo tasted so different.

They made so much out of so little.

They never once made us feel like it wasn’t enough.

They made sure we tasted joy, even when it came in small, salty bites.

Now I stand in my kitchen, steaming a whole pile of crabs. The big kind. The meaty kind. The kind I can occassionally afford now. I cook them with the same flavors my mom used, and I think of how quiet my parents’ generosity was. How they gave us everything... sometimes literally putting food in our mouths without asking for anything back.

They’re not here now. They’re not sitting at the table, hands busy and plates barely touched. But I feel them in every crab I crack open. I hear them in the laughter around my table when I serve it to my own family.

And sometimes, I catch myself setting aside the best pieces for my kids.

Because some habits, especially the ones born from love, never really leave you.

To Papa and Mama—thank you for those three crabs.

They fed more than just our bellies. They fed our hearts.

And they still do.