When my father died in July last year, I found myself entering a new chapter with my mother we weren’t quite prepared for.
In those early days, there were bills to pay, probate paperwork to file, and endless administrative matters to sort through. We were practical, composed. But beneath that quiet efficiency was a grief that neither of us quite knew how to navigate.
My mum had leaned on my dad for over 52 years – emotionally, logistically, financially. After he died, I knew she would need support. I decided to move back home – not out of obligation, but instinct – after staying on my own for more than a decade.
We had always been close. While living on my own, I visited them every weekend. We spoke regularly – about what to cook, what to watch, what needed doing that weekend. The everyday kind of closeness.
But this was different. This was daily proximity, emotional weight, and the delicate challenge of staying present for someone else while holding space for your own sorrow.
Grief has a way of stirring all kinds of emotions. I found myself aching, not just for my dad, but for the quiet expectations that came with caregiving.
There were moments – small, sharp ones – when I wished my efforts were more seen, or acknowledged. I was grieving too. But in our family, love is rarely spoken aloud. It comes through doing – through meals prepared, errands run, presence offered. And I had to learn to accept that.
Still, we connected in small, significant ways. We sorted through photos, reliving old stories in silence. And then there was the day I took Mum for a walk at East Coast Park – her first visit there in years. I nudged her gently, hoping it might help lift her spirits, even if just for a while.
The writer’s mother at East Coast Park – her first visit there in years. (Photo: Genevieve Jiang)
She grumbled about the distance – “So far! Are we there yet?” – but surprised me by climbing onto a stationary bike along the path, her face lighting up like a child trying something new.
That moment, fleeting as it was, felt like the start of something. A shift, however slight. The beginning of showing up for each other differently.
These days, I no longer live with her full-time. I spend weekdays at her place – working from a home office I’ve set up – and return to my own flat on weekends. It’s a rhythm that emerged slowly, and for now, it holds.
Leaving my full-time job to care for my dad after he was diagnosed with cancer just weeks before he passed was never meant to be permanent. But life has a way of rearranging itself. What began as a short-term change has become a quieter, steadier way of being.
Living with my mum again after more than a decade on my own came with its share of adjustments. I wanted to be there for her – to cushion the hardest parts – but I also had to learn how to carve out space for myself. There were legal matters to manage, banking apps she couldn’t navigate, moments when I felt like a personal assistant.
And yet, there were also moments of deep tenderness. She began planning simple meals whenever I stayed over, making sure I ate right – as if I were still a teenager.
The writer says her mother was the steady one when she was growing up, showing her love for the family in care, routine and presence. (Photo: Genevieve Jiang)
She made an effort not to comment on my habits, like working late nights, even when she clearly disapproved. I recognised these gestures for what they were: Her way of loving me in the only language she’s ever known – care, routine, presence.
Growing up, she had always been the steady one. My father, though devoted, had a temper. I was a headstrong teen, often clashing with him. My mum stood between us more times than I can count.
As I grew older, I saw how she showed up in quieter ways – preparing food after a long day, sitting with me after personal and professional setbacks, never prying but always there.
Now our roles have reversed. I nudge her gently to keep trying new things, whether it’s joining a support group activity, or figuring out how to use an app.
I’ve learnt to meet her where she is, instead of where I think she should be. Progress is slow, but every step forward – no matter how small – matters.
The writer’s mum on at excursion with WiCare, a support group for widows. (Photo: Genevieve Jiang)
Our evenings have become a quiet ritual. After dinner, she’ll sit with me as I unwind with a Netflix show. “Why are your shows always so violent?” she’ll ask. Or, “I have no idea what’s going on.”
I’ll end up giving her a running commentary, pausing now and then to explain who’s who, or why someone just got stabbed. She’ll nod, half-listening, sometimes pulling up her own show on her phone while mine plays in the background. But she stays. And in her staying, I hear everything she doesn’t say.
In this part of the world, the idea of leaving one’s parents to live out their old age alone can still feel unthinkable. Cultural expectations around filial piety run deep. But as families evolve and our lives grow more complex, so too do the ways we care.
Mother-daughter relationships are complex but there’s a profound healing in learning to show up for each other, says the writer. (Photo: Genevieve Jiang)
For me, the question was never whether to be there for my mum. It was how to do so in a way that honours her dignity, while also protecting my own sense of self.
My father’s example helped shape that. He was never demonstrative, but his devotion was steadfast. He rose before dawn every day to drive us to school, saved quietly and spent sparingly. His love was in the details.
In many ways, I now understand caregiving the same way – not as grand gestures, but as the act of staying. Sitting beside someone when it matters. Carrying the load when they can’t. Being present, even when it’s unglamorous. Especially when it’s unglamorous – like setting up her Singpass account, accompanying her to the lawyer’s office to sign a single document, or going through paperwork she can’t quite make sense of.
This has been a season of grief and transition, but also of growth. We’ve had our share of difficult days, fights and friction, but we’ve also learnt how to just be. How to honour the past without being stuck in it. How to sit with each other in the present, no matter how ordinary.
I don’t know what the next season will look like. But I do know this: For all the complexities of mother-daughter relationships, for all the things left unsaid – there’s something profoundly healing in learning to show up for each other.
In the end, it’s not always about fixing, or saving, or changing. Sometimes, love just looks like staying the course. Quietly. Faithfully. Together.
CNA Women is a section on CNA Lifestyle that seeks to inform, empower and inspire the modern woman. If you have women-related news, issues and ideas to share with us, email CNAWomen [at] mediacorp.com.sg.
Continue reading...
In those early days, there were bills to pay, probate paperwork to file, and endless administrative matters to sort through. We were practical, composed. But beneath that quiet efficiency was a grief that neither of us quite knew how to navigate.
My mum had leaned on my dad for over 52 years – emotionally, logistically, financially. After he died, I knew she would need support. I decided to move back home – not out of obligation, but instinct – after staying on my own for more than a decade.
We had always been close. While living on my own, I visited them every weekend. We spoke regularly – about what to cook, what to watch, what needed doing that weekend. The everyday kind of closeness.
But this was different. This was daily proximity, emotional weight, and the delicate challenge of staying present for someone else while holding space for your own sorrow.
Grief has a way of stirring all kinds of emotions. I found myself aching, not just for my dad, but for the quiet expectations that came with caregiving.
There were moments – small, sharp ones – when I wished my efforts were more seen, or acknowledged. I was grieving too. But in our family, love is rarely spoken aloud. It comes through doing – through meals prepared, errands run, presence offered. And I had to learn to accept that.
Still, we connected in small, significant ways. We sorted through photos, reliving old stories in silence. And then there was the day I took Mum for a walk at East Coast Park – her first visit there in years. I nudged her gently, hoping it might help lift her spirits, even if just for a while.
The writer’s mother at East Coast Park – her first visit there in years. (Photo: Genevieve Jiang)
She grumbled about the distance – “So far! Are we there yet?” – but surprised me by climbing onto a stationary bike along the path, her face lighting up like a child trying something new.
That moment, fleeting as it was, felt like the start of something. A shift, however slight. The beginning of showing up for each other differently.
A NEW RHYTHM
These days, I no longer live with her full-time. I spend weekdays at her place – working from a home office I’ve set up – and return to my own flat on weekends. It’s a rhythm that emerged slowly, and for now, it holds.
Leaving my full-time job to care for my dad after he was diagnosed with cancer just weeks before he passed was never meant to be permanent. But life has a way of rearranging itself. What began as a short-term change has become a quieter, steadier way of being.
Living with my mum again after more than a decade on my own came with its share of adjustments. I wanted to be there for her – to cushion the hardest parts – but I also had to learn how to carve out space for myself. There were legal matters to manage, banking apps she couldn’t navigate, moments when I felt like a personal assistant.
And yet, there were also moments of deep tenderness. She began planning simple meals whenever I stayed over, making sure I ate right – as if I were still a teenager.
The writer says her mother was the steady one when she was growing up, showing her love for the family in care, routine and presence. (Photo: Genevieve Jiang)
She made an effort not to comment on my habits, like working late nights, even when she clearly disapproved. I recognised these gestures for what they were: Her way of loving me in the only language she’s ever known – care, routine, presence.
Growing up, she had always been the steady one. My father, though devoted, had a temper. I was a headstrong teen, often clashing with him. My mum stood between us more times than I can count.
As I grew older, I saw how she showed up in quieter ways – preparing food after a long day, sitting with me after personal and professional setbacks, never prying but always there.
Now our roles have reversed. I nudge her gently to keep trying new things, whether it’s joining a support group activity, or figuring out how to use an app.
I’ve learnt to meet her where she is, instead of where I think she should be. Progress is slow, but every step forward – no matter how small – matters.
The writer’s mum on at excursion with WiCare, a support group for widows. (Photo: Genevieve Jiang)
Our evenings have become a quiet ritual. After dinner, she’ll sit with me as I unwind with a Netflix show. “Why are your shows always so violent?” she’ll ask. Or, “I have no idea what’s going on.”
I’ll end up giving her a running commentary, pausing now and then to explain who’s who, or why someone just got stabbed. She’ll nod, half-listening, sometimes pulling up her own show on her phone while mine plays in the background. But she stays. And in her staying, I hear everything she doesn’t say.
In this part of the world, the idea of leaving one’s parents to live out their old age alone can still feel unthinkable. Cultural expectations around filial piety run deep. But as families evolve and our lives grow more complex, so too do the ways we care.
Mother-daughter relationships are complex but there’s a profound healing in learning to show up for each other, says the writer. (Photo: Genevieve Jiang)
For me, the question was never whether to be there for my mum. It was how to do so in a way that honours her dignity, while also protecting my own sense of self.
My father’s example helped shape that. He was never demonstrative, but his devotion was steadfast. He rose before dawn every day to drive us to school, saved quietly and spent sparingly. His love was in the details.
In many ways, I now understand caregiving the same way – not as grand gestures, but as the act of staying. Sitting beside someone when it matters. Carrying the load when they can’t. Being present, even when it’s unglamorous. Especially when it’s unglamorous – like setting up her Singpass account, accompanying her to the lawyer’s office to sign a single document, or going through paperwork she can’t quite make sense of.
This has been a season of grief and transition, but also of growth. We’ve had our share of difficult days, fights and friction, but we’ve also learnt how to just be. How to honour the past without being stuck in it. How to sit with each other in the present, no matter how ordinary.
I don’t know what the next season will look like. But I do know this: For all the complexities of mother-daughter relationships, for all the things left unsaid – there’s something profoundly healing in learning to show up for each other.
In the end, it’s not always about fixing, or saving, or changing. Sometimes, love just looks like staying the course. Quietly. Faithfully. Together.
CNA Women is a section on CNA Lifestyle that seeks to inform, empower and inspire the modern woman. If you have women-related news, issues and ideas to share with us, email CNAWomen [at] mediacorp.com.sg.
Continue reading...