10/05/2026
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What stayed with me was my motherโs hardship,
and the home she still chose to build.
My mum was from Penang.
As a child, she was sold twice.
She did not know where her real siblings were.
She studied only until Standard Three.
She did not grow up in a perfect home.
She did not have someone she could truly call โPapaโ and โMama.โ
That kind of beginning leaves a wound.
A wound of belonging.
A wound of safety.
A wound of never fully knowing where home begins.
When she came to Kuala Lumpur, she worked as a house helper.
Later, she met my dad.
They married in her 20s.
To her, meeting my dad was one of the most beautiful memories of her life.
Through him, she finally understood what home could mean.
Home was someone who cared about her presence.
Home was safety.
Home was belonging.
Then life tested that home again.
My dad was diagnosed with cancer.
My mum took care of him, inside and out.
Hospital visits became part of her life.
Fear became something she carried inside.
During that time, my sister helped hold the family together.
Today, she is a mother of three.
When my dad lost his battle with cancer, my mum was only in her early 40s.
She lost her husband.
She lost her pillar.
She lost the person who helped her believe in home.
I still remember her crying alone.
In her room.
During her prayers.
While driving.
As a child, I did not fully understand her pain.
I only knew I felt safe when she sat beside me while I studied.
As I grew older, I began to understand her fear.
The fear of managing a home alone.
The fear of seeing only a few thousand ringgit left in the bank account.
The fear of the future.
The fear of failing the life she had promised my dad.
Many mothers carry this fear in silence.
They wake up with it.
Cook with it.
Pray with it.
Smile through it.
After my dad left, my mum became a babysitter.
She took care of other peopleโs babies
while still trying to protect her own children.
She was tired.
She was grieving.
She was worried.
But she never lost sight of her duty as a mother.
I remember the simple meals she cooked.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing grand.
But they tasted like home.
They reminded me where I came from.
They reminded me that love can arrive in simple ways.
As warm rice.
As food kept ready for us.
As a mother sitting beside you while you study.
My mum became the bright sun of our family.
She guided us through loss.
She gave us warmth after life had been cold to her.
She became the home she was never given.
Perhaps that is a motherโs greatest sacrifice.
She carries fear in silence,
breaks in private,
and still becomes the light her children remember.
Happy Motherโs Day.
โฏโ
