My mother became the sole breadwinner after my father passed away when I was three, raising my two younger brothers and me single-handedly.
Despite the quiet awkwardness of report card days – when my classmates arrived with both parents – I still had a contented childhood because my mother tried her best to fill the void left by my father’s absence.
Though uneducated, she valued learning and wanted us to study hard so we could have better lives as adults. Despite her modest income, she willingly spent on our education, including private tuition, and even worked mornings at a wet market to earn extra money.I believe I had some talent in drawing and writing.
In the pre-social media era, I spent my leisure time drawing original comics in used exercise books from previous school years, and reading comic books such as Dragon Ball, Doraemon and Crayon Shin-chan. I even read comics during bathroom breaks. These pastimes gradually enriched my imagination and improved my drawing and writing skills.
When I wrote, I blended imagination with elements of real life.
There was once in Standard Six when my class teacher gave us a Chinese composition assignment. After more than thirty years, I cannot recall the exact title, but based on my memory, this is a snippet of what I wrote:
“One afternoon, I cycled home excitedly after school. After I had parked my mountain bike in the front yard, I walked into the house. The living room was quiet and softly lit by the afternoon sunlight. I went to the dining room, where the walls were built with rusty criss-cross iron net.
"A few calico cats were loafing on the platform outside the net, while some hens foraged on the dry soil beyond, separated by a deep drain. There stood a round plastic food cover on the dining table, keeping the lunch dishes away from house flies. As I removed the cover, the dishes had turned cold – my mother had prepared them before leaving for work. It was another lonely lunch for me.”
Some time after I handed in the composition, I faintly remember my class teacher sympathetically encouraging me to stay strong in the school corridor.
One evening, I was having dinner with my siblings in the kitchen while my mother was mopping the floor in the living room. I had left my composition book open on a foldable table. Whenever she rode her motorbike home from work, she immediately cooked dinner for us before sweeping and mopping the house. Those were chores she never neglected despite being a working mother. Because of her efforts, our small home was always neat and comfortable.
When I had finished dinner and placed my dish in the basin, I went back to the living room to continue my homework. I saw my mother sitting at the table reading my composition.
She was exasperated. She scolded me for writing a composition that painted her as a disqualified mother when, in reality, she had been doing everything she could for us –working, feeding us, managing most of the chores and supporting our education. She asked whether all her sacrifices meant nothing, or whether she was truly a failed mother in my eyes.
I cannot exactly recall whether I only received a scolding or a few strokes of the cane. But I do remember that she was deeply hurt. To me at that age, it was simply creative writing, shaped by imagination and some elements of truth, intended to move my reader – my teacher.
More than 30 years later, her three sons are adults capable of earning a decent living. Her sacrifices have paid off. She now leads a semi-retired life, co-running a snack wholesale business with relatives. Although we give her pocket money, she insists on working rather than depending fully on her sons. I admire her independence, and she remains my role model.
Recently, I casually asked her about that incident. To my surprise, she had forgotten all about it. Yet the composition that once broke her heart remains deeply etched in my memory – a quiet coming-of-age moment that I have never forgotten.
