Most people don’t know this, but I spent the first five or six years of my life in low-cost flats. The kind with stairwells that sometimes reeked of pee. But that wasn’t my parents’ home. My parents lived in a big bungalow with hired help. Meanwhile, I lived with my babysitter, a widow raising three teenage daughters on her own. A kind, gentle, and soft-spoken woman I called Mama.
In those first years of my life, Mama was like a mother to me. She did everything a mother would: fed me, taught me, cared for me, loved me. Most importantly, she felt like a mother to me. At her place, life was simple, yet I never wanted for anything. We all slept in one small room, several thin mattresses lined across the floor. She always patted me to sleep. Later, when I was too old to require pats, she’d still pat me. I never pointed to her how big I already was because secretly, I craved the affection. It was something I didn’t get much from the family home.
Food was far from lavish. Canned fish with salted black beans shared between the five of us was a staple. We walked everywhere, sometimes took buses. Taxi rides were a treat. The highlight of my day was the pisang goreng she would present after my evening nap. But that didn’t come often. Most days she would tell me the stall wasn’t open. Looking back now, pisang goreng was probably a rare treat she could ill afford.
She’d always recount with a chuckle how her late husband adored me, bringing home a raisin bun daily that I would quickly pull apart just to consume the raisins and discard the rest. I remember his presence, though I was really young then: thin, slightly balding, and soft-spoken just like her. He passed unexpectedly. One day there, the next day gone. When I returned to her place just a day or two later, it seemed like life went on as usual.
I never saw her crying or sad. It must have been tough, raising three girls on her own with only her babysitting salary. And yet, she made everything happen. I never felt the struggle under her roof. Somehow, she just made things work. Every Chinese New Year, she would hand me a huge bag of brand-new clothes. So many that I now wonder how she managed to afford them.
Each week, from Sunday night through Friday night, I stayed at her place. My parents would pick me up Friday nights to spend weekends with them, then drop me off again Sunday nights. I would often pretend to be asleep on Friday nights, hoping my parents would come back the next day so I could spend another night with her. My fondest and most heartbreaking memory was seeing her wave goodbye from her balcony as the car drove off each weekend. She always stood there, waving, until we disappeared from sight.
As I grew too old to require babysitting, I would beg to spend my month long year-end school holidays at her place instead of enjoying beach holidays with my family. It was peaceful in her household. More importantly, I was happy to read and watch movies on repeat all day. I still can’t quite explain the appeal. Maybe it was the quiet, unspoken comfort of just knowing she was close by. And her? For some reason, she was fine having another human to care for.
She gently taught me everything a mother would pass on to a daughter. Though she didn’t live with abundance, she always reminded me never to be greedy and to only take what I needed, to leave what’s left for others.
She’s not here on earth now. She passed about two years ago. But I didn’t feel sad about her passing. I guess to me, not living a mobile life isn’t dignified living, and to be free of that meant no more languishing.
Last night I dreamt about her. I was talking to her on the phone, her voice just as I remember it from all those years ago. Comforting, gentle, and calm. And then I cried. Not because I wanted her back here, but because I once felt warmth, adoration, and acceptance in an unconditional way. As I reflect, I guess my formative years with her shaped who I am. I learned very early in life that all the excesses in the world would never fill your heart the way a loving home does. I had the big house with chandeliers and a huge garden, but it was always that small, unassuming home I would run to.
It was where I felt the happiest as a child. It was a time where I lived with little, but felt the most loved.
I don’t believe in a heaven or hell. But if there was a heaven, I’m certain Mama is right up there now, living her best life free from worldly pains and worries, as she so deserves. And me? I’m just so grateful to have had her touch my life the way she did.
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