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By 2am my grandmother was already shaking her awake. The lorry, sixteen wheels, tall as a house, wouldn’t arrive until 5am, but timing it right across so many households near the water was never simple, especially with the flood water rising fast. My mother would wait in the dark and cold, half-asleep, until it was time to go. School didn’t start till 7.30am, but they’d already be there by 6am, napping on benches until the gates opened. Afterward came the cleaning, the ruined chairs, the tables, the small sentimental things the water simply took. It was enough to make a young girl swear she’d move to a city one day, and never live like this again.
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Dusty roads, sugarcane shadows, and hearts pounding with mischief. Aunt Carol and her friends crouched low, waiting for the exact moment a worker’s back was turned or a stray stalk tumbled from an overfilled cart. Then came the dash, the grab, and the scramble back into hiding. Under the shade of a banana tree, one bite of raw, syrupy sweetness made every risk worth it.
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She never asked for much herself. Up at 5 a.m. every day, stretching every dollar, feeding everyone before herself. Behind an arranged marriage and a lifetime of quiet responsibility was a woman who kept her family’s future safe in her own two hands. My Ah Ma’s love was never spoken aloud. It was measured in early mornings, packed meals, and never once thinking of herself first.
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Long days of hard labour, then evenings perched on parked lorries with friends who felt like family. My grandmother’s happiest years weren’t easy ones. They were simple, shared, and full of laughter along Amoy Street.
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Growing up in a big family was not always easy. My father favoured sons over daughters, leaving my sisters and I to resolve things on our own. Financial constraints and the lack of a conducive home environment meant formal education was a challenge I could not fully complete. Adulthood brought change. I found my footing, met my partner through mutual connections, and together we built a home and family of our own. When it came to our children, I never pushed for top grades. What mattered more was that they enjoyed the learning journey and grew as individuals along the way.
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At 85, my mother carries a lifetime of quiet courage. Two stories define her. She travelled to Germany over 50 years ago and came back the first woman in her family to wear pants and cut her hair short. Then an electric shock from a faulty heater damaged her nerves and left her with lifelong spinal problems. When she could not bend at all, she learned to pick up a needle with her toes. Change and resilience, in equal measure.
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Every morning at 5:00 AM, my mother was already awake. Not to peace, but to pressure. She cooked, she served, she endured constant criticism from her mother-in-law no matter how hard she tried. When others defended her, it only made things worse. Yet she kept going, walking on eggshells in her own home, never breaking.
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Born in 1938 to a father who believed school was only for sons, my mother never spent a single day in a classroom. By eight, she was already sweeping floors, cooking, and raising her siblings while her brothers were sent to study. Long before she could read a single word herself, she made sure her younger sisters never missed a day of school and only in her twenties, through free night classes, did she finally learn to read and write.
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My father never spoke about hardship in a dramatic way — his strength showed up quietly, in folded laundry, dinners cooked without complaint, a light left on for whoever came home late. No titles, no applause, just decades of steady giving. Now older, all he wants is simple: his children safe, healthy, and home for meals.
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I grew up in a kampung near Yio Chu Kang, one of twelve children in a family where money was always tight. I went on to spend more than forty years as a dedicated assistant chemist, rarely missing a single day of work. My hope is simple: study hard, work hard, and doors will open that earlier generations could only dream of.
