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.
Growing up, I always knew my Ah Ma as someone who woke up early, worried about whether everyone had eaten, and never seemed to ask for much herself. It wasn’t until I sat down to interview her that I realised how much of her story had quietly shaped our family.
I’m the granddaughter of her eldest daughter—my mum—and as we spoke, Mum would occasionally help translate the Hokkien that Ah Ma slipped into naturally. Between the translations, laughter, and little pauses to remember, a life slowly unfolded.
Like many women of her generation, Ah Ma didn’t meet my Kong Kong through romance. It was an arranged match by a relative. Ah Ma admitted she wasn’t very keen after hearing about his temper.
“But last time, what choice was there?” she said matter-of-factly.
Divorce was rare and carried great shame. Looking back now, she simply calls it fate.
Their marriage wasn’t built on grand gestures. It was built on responsibility.
She laughed as she described Kong Kong. “He liked to show off,” she said with a smile. Yet behind that pride was someone who always put his family first.
He wasn’t the one who managed the household finances. Every time he earned money, he handed it straight to Ah Ma for safekeeping. She became the keeper of the family’s future, stretching every dollar and making sure there was enough.
She described him as a thrifty man. For years, a colour television remained just a dream. Then one day, the family struck the lottery and won $2,000. Only then did they finally buy one. It wasn’t simply about owning a television—it was a reminder that even small luxuries had to be earned.
Before marriage, Ah Ma worked washing clothes in Tiong Bahru. After she became a mother, work took on a different meaning.
Every day began at 5 a.m.
She prepared milk, got the children dressed, cleaned the house, went to the market, cooked, and made sure every child was fed before the day truly began. Disposable diapers weren’t common or affordable, so cloth nappies were washed and reused.
She stopped working entirely while raising her children. Only after her youngest child entered Primary One did she return to work.
She would send him to school before heading to her job as a canteen operator serving industrial workers. She prepared vegetables, brewed coffee, washed up, and helped feed around sixty people across ten tables. At the end of the day, she often brought leftover food home so nothing would go to waste.
Listening to her, I realised that love in her generation was rarely spoken aloud. It was measured in early mornings, packed meals, clean clothes, and making sure everyone else had enough before thinking about yourself.
One story that made us all laugh happened on our family cruise.
Ah Ma was surprised to discover she couldn’t really play mahjong anymore, but somehow she found jackpot machines incredibly easy. Every small win lit up her face with childlike joy. It reminded me that happiness doesn’t disappear with age—it simply changes shape.
But there was another conversation on that cruise that stayed with me.
When we talked about celebrating her birthday, she quietly said she didn’t want to celebrate anymore because she was ready to pass away.
The words caught me off guard.
Perhaps that is something many older people feel but rarely say aloud. After a lifetime spent caring for everyone else, they begin thinking about endings rather than beginnings.
Yet sitting beside her, hearing her stories, laughing about Kong Kong’s personality, and watching her smile over a simple jackpot game, I couldn’t help but feel that these memories are worth celebrating.
My Ah Ma’s name is Lulu. Her mother came from China while her father was from Singapore. Her story isn’t one you’ll find in history books. It’s the story of countless women who quietly built homes, raised families, stretched every dollar, and carried responsibilities without expecting recognition.
As grandchildren, we often know our grandparents only as “Ah Ma” or “Ah Gong.” We forget that before they became our elders, they were young people with hopes, fears, difficult choices, and dreams of their own.
I’m grateful I took the time to ask.
Because one day, these stories won’t just belong to her anymore. They’ll become the stories that remind our family where we came from.