15 Nov 2024. My father died on this day. It’s taken me a while to write this. I wish I could have found a photo of us, posted it and shared my grief with the world as soon as I heard. But I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t have any photos of him with me (which I didn’t) but because it felt strange, like I didn’t have a right to grieve. We were estranged. I have not seen or spoken to him for the past 25 years, save for the one time in 2017 when he needed me to sign a form. I thought it would be hypocritical if I grieved publicly.
I was in Piedmont, Italy when I woke up to the news at 6am. That’s the room I was in. I don’t think I will ever forget this room. My husband, having had a bad night before with a terrible hacking cough, was asleep on the couch outside and I did not want to disturb him.
So, I spent the next two hours processing and jumping to the mystical meaning behind why the universe placed me miles away from everything that was unfolding back home.
I texted three of my best friends. I said I didn’t know what to feel. They said that’s only normal. Then my husband woke up, I told him, he hugged me, I said “I’m okay.”
We spent the day as planned, drinking Barolo and eating truffles. And my mind spent the next few days hopping between “oh my god how beautiful are these rolling, vineyard-dotted hills” and “oh my god what a life my dad led”.
Before we were estranged.
What life did he lead? Well, I can only speak from the first twenty years of my life.
An awesome one back then, I think. He was a brilliant and hardworking businessman. That’s what I admire most about him. I suppose I get my work ethos from him. Like clockwork, he’d be out of the door every morning to where he ruled his roost. He was a timber merchant and his success was stellar. He went from nothing to being insanely rich. I remember attending many fancy dinners with his associates, twice-yearly holidays overseas, once even flying First Class on SIA (back in the ‘80s, it was the thrill of a 10-year-old being called “Ms” and being served caviar). Plus, it was the one trip where it was just my father and me. I don’t have many such memories.
The most fun were the grand New Year’s Eve parties we’d host at home. The one time I was allowed to stay up past midnight. I think that’s why I insist on celebrating NYE with a bang—that’s my religious holiday.
He also had a cheeky sense of humour. And I was told by many, that I was his favourite. I was a “daddy’s girl”. Until I wasn’t. But I’m not going to get into this. People think I was angry with him. I was not. Our relationship dying wasn’t about the two of us. Things I was told shaped my perspective. One day, I stopped talking to him and that was that. Sure, he could have persisted in connecting with me even after he eventually left us. Sure, I could have resuscitated the relationship after our meeting in 2017. After all, the problem was never between us. And yet, we both allowed the turbulent undercurrents of our family to rip us apart.
A Black Hole of Unanswered Questions.
And that’s what makes my grief so complicated. So many questions that never seemed important when he was alive came to life. What were the past 25 years like for him? Did he ever talk about me? Was he happy with the life he had? How was he in the end, what did he look like? Was he afraid of dying or was he ready to go? Did he ask to see me?
I don’t know if I really want to ask these questions. And with whom am I going to speak, anyway? I was shocked with the initial radio silence when the news first hit and not a single family member, except one cousin, checked in on me. No one seems to think his death has impacted me. I can explain their reasons why, no matter how misguided they are. I get the hesitance and uncertainty. Well, the universe gave me a chance to share my feelings with a few aunts when I returned to Singapore, so that was something. Maybe time will minimise the importance of knowing, anyway.
So, in this deserted sphere of grief, the best I can do is to remember the few, good times. I don’t need to idealise or demonise him. He was who he was. There is only one thing I have to say.
Daddy, I do not know if I had been in Singapore, whether I would have seen you in your dying days. But, if I had, I would have thanked you for giving me a carefree and contented childhood. And while you weren’t an ideal father figure, you certainly were an outstanding example of diligence and dedication at work. Probably the best thing I absorbed from you. So, for all that, thank you. Rest in peace.
