My mother was expecting us to take her out to a good meal. And though she didn’t articulate that expectation, her children had to meet it. Nothing less.
Nothing less is what my mother expects. And it has been that way all her life. From jostling for the littlest bit of attention in her childhood, among 13 siblings, in a small shophouse in Seremban, right to where she is now: A successful businesswoman with three grown children who struggle to know anything about poverty.
And though she doesn’t talk much about her childhood and how she suffered, I’ve had the benefit of my other relatives telling me horror stories of Lembok and Cameron Street, Seremban. And that’s where she honed that strength and grit of hers.
One morning last year, my mother fell and broke her leg in two places. Hip and knee. She lasted the afternoon on two panadols, after one GP visit, and before a trip to the hospital, where she stayed for six weeks.
My mother can kick all of your asses. With her bad leg. And that’s why my brother and I thought it was ok to buy her dinner at the cafe at the Four Seasons.