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Mdm Low grew up in a kampong with no running water, cooking over charcoal and reading by kerosene lamp. She watched her world change from wet markets to supermarkets, from cash to digital payments. Recently, standing at a hawker stall trying to scan a CDC voucher while people moved quickly around her, she felt that old, familiar feeling of catching up all over again. At 86, she is still learning, still adapting, one step at a time.
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She left a military desk job in her prime to raise three kids instead — hauling us through the market, fielding strangers’ stares and sympathy, just to keep us fed and whole. She never once complained, even as it wore her down. Her love showed up quietest at the dumpling table, hands folded into dough, family folded into her.
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At two, she lost her mother to a trick and a lie. By twenty, she lost her own wedding to someone else’s plan. In between and after, she learned to survive by being useful, agreeable, impressive, anything to avoid feeling unwanted again. A Mercedes they couldn’t afford, a country club they couldn’t justify, a smile that rarely cracked even when it should have. Now, in her later years, there’s still time to say the words she’s waited a lifetime to hear: Mom, I appreciate you in my life.
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My mother sewed my wedding gown by hand, simple lace, no designer label, just her love stitched into every seam. My husband and I kept the celebration small: forty loved ones, four tables, a seafood dinner at East Coast. Some guests didn’t even realise it was our wedding until they arrived. What I remember most isn’t the dress or the venue though. It’s my two-year-old niece, mid-meltdown, patting her own tears away and whispering “don’t cry, don’t cry” to herself. That’s the moment our whole family still laughs about, decades later.
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He remembers when $350 a month was a good wage, when 50-cent chicken rice made it stretch, and when queuing an hour just to ride a train felt like the most exciting thing in the world. Sixty-three years old this year, he’s watched Singapore transform from kampong zinc roofs to underground trains — and NS, factory shifts, and roadside supper sessions along the way. His son finally asked him to tell the whole story.
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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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One of my most memorable memories of her is how she never gave up, even during difficult times. After her stroke, she continued to show courage and patience despite challenges she faced. Watching her strength taught me the true meaning of perseverance and unconditional love.
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By the time we were all grown, her hands had become worn and wrinkled from years of labour. Yet, she never expressed regret. She would say she had lived a meaningful life. She did not regret marrying my father, leaving her hometown, or coming to Singapore alone without family or friends.
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My siblings and I, as we listened to this story through our years of growing up in poverty, took it as a lesson and recognize that the world exists as such. We are reminded to always stand up for ourselves and jostle for our place in society. More importantly, even if all efforts fail and we have to face some embarrassment, we must always finish the race.
