How my father’s death brought me closer to my siblings
Ms Chua Jia Ling's father died in 2023 due to sickness. She talked about how the tragedy has drawn her closer to her three siblings, and how they honour their late parents' memories through kinship.
by Chua Jia Ling · CNA · JoinRead a summary of this article on FAST.
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There was a full moon on the night we sent our late father off for the last time.
That night in June 2023, after wrapping up and concluding the funeral, my siblings and I returned home, physically and emotionally drained. We had a quick debrief – not just going through logistics and our to-do lists for the next few weeks, but also to process the weight of the three-day funeral together.
Even as grief lingered, there was a quiet comfort in the space we shared together.
Heading to my car that night in preparation to drive home, I looked towards the sky. The moon was extra shiny, bright and round, impossible to miss against the pitch-black night sky.
I took a picture of it and sent it to the chat group I share with my siblings.
"It's a full moon night tonight," I wrote. "Seems to be comforting us that everything has come full circle, and that Dad's life has completed beautifully."
The reply from my brother caught me off guard.
He wrote: "Dad didn't leave us, instead (he) lives with us, in our hearts and memories that no one can take away. We must take good care of ourselves, our bodies, our health and this sibling unity given by both Dad and Mummy."
Reading this, tears welled up in my eyes. They were just simple words, but within them lay a promise we all made to carry Dad’s memory forward together.
THE CHILD WITHIN
It's natural that parents should leave this earth before their children, but the logic of it does nothing to soften the sorrow.
Grief, I've learnt, is not just about missing someone – it's about re-learning the world without them in it.
It took me and my siblings a long time to deal with our father's death. And in many ways, we are still dealing with it.
My mother died when I was just a year old. After her passing, my father became the anchor of our family and our lives.
My father and I had a difficult relationship while I was growing up. We talked little and shared almost nothing with each other about our lives.
But when we grew a lot closer some years ago, even though I was a fully-grown adult, I became almost like a little girl again, calling my father anytime I wanted, even if it was just for a short call.
"Papa, where are you?"
"Papa, do you want to eat the goreng pisang from Ang Mo Kio Central? I am near here."
"Pa, I will be home late. Don't have to wait for me."
Here's a truth that is less talked about: The older we get, the more we yearn for our parents. With time, we begin to see their pain through a different lens – not as children or distant observers, but as adults who now understand the weight of responsibility our parents shouldered and the endless battles they fought for us.
No matter how old we get, as long as our parents are around, part of us still remains a child.
THE FAMILY TRIP THAT NEVER WAS
Dad had been a blue-collar worker all his life.
Between raising his four children and making ends meet as the sole breadwinner, he had little time left for leisure and personal pursuits. He never had the opportunity to travel; we never even took a family trip together.
I remember feeling envious whenever schoolmates shared stories about their latest family holiday trips and where they were travelling next with their parents. I would listen and smile, but my heart would get a pang as I imagined what it would feel like to experience that kind of "togetherness" with my own family.
Sometime in 2022, my siblings and I began to plan for our very first family trip – when to take Dad to get his passport renewed, which country to visit.
And then Dad's health took a sudden, sharp downturn. The excitement was swallowed up by fear and urgency.
Dad was hospitalised soon after that and the idea of a family trip took a back seat. We stopped thinking of destinations like Taiwan and Malaysia. We just wanted to bring our father back home.
The morning our father died, we had rushed to him upon receiving emergency calls from the hospital, but we were too late. We had missed his last breath.
"Touch Papa's hands. Let him know we're here to see him for the last time," my brother said through tears. "He will know it because he can still feel us."
That was the very first time in my life I had ever seen my brother – the oldest among us – cry. He didn't try to hide his tears and we didn't need to speak of it as well.
As a very traditional man, Dad had believed deeply in "家和万事兴", a Chinese proverb that directly translates to "When the family lives in harmony, everything will prosper."
In the final moments before the undertaker shut the coffin, I whispered this promise to him – that we siblings would continue to uphold this family unity in his absence.
HONOURING DAD THROUGH KINSHIP
It's been more than two years since Dad died. My siblings and I do not openly talk about it, but I know each of us are still grieving in our own ways.
After our father's death, my siblings and I have made sure to stay as close-knit as we can.
We celebrate every birthday and achievement, big or small. My corporate promotion, my sister being recognised for her medical service or even my niece graduating from kindergarten – we share them all in our parents' absence.
We make it a point to gather every week for family dinners and make regular temple visits together. This is our way of honouring our parents: not just through remembrance, but through living fully and together.
We talk about Dad — the way his eyes would light up when he saw his grandchildren; his pleased smirk when we praised the food he whipped up for Sunday dinners.
These fragments of him live in each of us. By sharing them, we keep his memory alive and close to our hearts.
Some time after our father's death, we began talking about a family trip again. It felt like something Dad would have wanted for us.
In November 2024, we took a trip to Penang, Malaysia, with our spouses and children joining us.
Even as a grown adult in my early 30s, I could feel the excitement weeks before the trip, the very first one we've ever taken together as a family.
It was short – just three days and two nights – but I truly enjoyed spending that time with those I hold near and dear.
Through it all, I've come to understand that grief doesn't just take – it also gives.
It gave me and my siblings a deeper kinship, one forged in the mutual understanding of shared loss. We learnt new ways to care for each other more, by putting our late parents at the core of everything we do.
We still miss our dad very much and always will. But I hope and wish that our father's spirit is soaring in some other realm now, serene and free, no longer weighed down by life's burdens.
To my big brother, my big sister and my second sister: Being the youngest in our family has been a gift, and I'm grateful to have three role models to look up to in my growing-up years and long into adulthood.
May our bonds remain close-knit, no matter where life takes us.
Chua Jia Ling is a bank executive.
If you have an experience to share or know someone who wishes to contribute to this series, write to voices [at] mediacorp.com.sg (voices[at]mediacorp[dot]com[dot]sg) with your full name, address and phone number.
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