Losing the people we love is never easy — and for me, it happened not once, but three times in just 20 years of my life.

I never had the chance to feel a father’s love. My father passed away when I was only 2, after battling tuberculosis. He left my mother, my brother, and me behind. For 48 years, my mother never remarried. She worked endlessly just to raise us — mornings at a kindergarten, afternoons at a small canteen, nights sewing for extra income, and even weekends working in the fields. She did everything on her own.

When I was in secondary school, I stayed in a hostel. Every weekend, I watched my friends meet their parents during visiting hours. I could only sit and watch from a distance. I was jealous, but it also taught me to appreciate what I had.

In 2021, just a week before Hari Raya — the same year I was preparing for my national exams — my mother called me to ask what colour I wanted for my Raya outfit. I didn’t know that would be the last call I’d ever receive from her. A few days later, I was informed of her passing. I went home in disbelief and ended up leading my own mother’s funeral prayer.

To my late parents, this is what I want to say:

“I’ve made it to university now. Even though both of you never got to see this moment, I promise to study hard and make the most of the opportunity I’ve been given.”

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