The Quiet Promise

A story from the eyes of Ah Ma, to the one she held closest.

Meeting You

I remember the first time I held you.

You were so small—tiny, wrinkled, wrapped up in that hospital blanket. Your little fingers kept reaching out, like you were searching for something. Maybe the world. Maybe… me.

I wasn’t young anymore. My back ached, my eyes turned blurry by dusk. But I looked at you and thought, “Ji eh gina, wa eh ai li kau kau.”(This child, I will love you very much.)

Even then, I knew you would grow up fast. So I made a quiet promise: I would slow time down for you. I would show you the beauty in simple things—the hush between words, the warmth of waiting hands.

I Wasn’t Highly Educated, But I Tried

I didn’t study much when I was young. Books were heavy, but rice was heavier. So I carried rice. Carried your mother too. Carried this whole household when no one else could.

My English was never good. I couldn’t read your thick textbooks or help with your homework. But when you came home, dragging your little feet, I always said, “Lai, jiak peng.”(Come, eat rice.) It was my way of saying, “You’ve done enough today.”

Sometimes you showed me your report card. I didn’t understand much, but I still smiled, patted your head and said, “Beh pai la.” (Not bad already.) Because you tried. And to me, that was enough.

When You Started Growing Away 

One day, you stopped asking me to tie your shoelaces. You stopped asking me to walk you to school. The hugs got shorter. The visits fewer.

Now, I still boil your favourite soup. Just in case. In case you walk through the door needing something warm.

Sometimes, I pretend I didn’t hear the door close— because pretending feels better than knowing you left without saying, “Wa tng lai.” (I’ll come back.)

The Things I Said With My Hands

I didn’t grow up saying “I love you.” But I peeled prawns until my fingers ached. I steamed your favourite yam cake before sunrise. I scolded, “Li jiak mi hiam, bo jio Ah Ma!” (You eat delicious things but never share with Ah Ma!)

Not because I really wanted a bite— but because I wanted you to remember: The value to share

And so, if one day I am gone— when my voice is no longer here to call you home, I hope you’ll still taste my love in every bite, feel it in every familiar smell, and remember the quiet promise I made to you long ago.