About mum, one year on.

Mum loved a simple butter cake. Fluffy sponge, orangey-brown on the outside, sunshine yellow in the middle. Come to think of it, she didn’t have much of a sweet tooth. “Not too sweet” was one of the higher of Samantha-Sia-sweet-thing-compliments.

As I picture her in my mind we’re sitting at our round marble-top dining table. The fan would have been on at full blast to fight the Kuala Lumpur wet heat. She’d carefully kept fragile ceramic plates inherited from my grandfather, and on them I’d serve us up a slice of cake each. Milky instant coffee in our favourite mugs, her seat in front of the humming refrigerator. As I pottered about she’d be talking about the latest gossip from her ‘Dancing Ladies’ WhatsApp group, or how my cousin Yvonne wanted to drop by our flat to generously give us surplus fruits.

We spent many hours at this table over the years. Talking about family and friends, snacking, squinting at laptop screens to plan out how we’d spend the weeks ahead on colour-coded Word docs. As I moved from young adult to (scary) proper grown-up, she told me more stories about her past, what worried her, what annoyed her, what she had to overcome. I’d sit there long after the coffee was cold to absorb it all.

My mother Sam was a complex woman with a challenging past. I feel privileged to have seen as many colours of her emotional spectrum as I did, from the bright and cheerful to the dark and grey. We didn’t always agree, but that was alright. Deep down, I felt we both knew talking to each other got us closer to whatever answers we were looking for.

Often the hours would pass by in a blink, and Christine and Dad would walk through the door after work in time for our family dinner. If Nick was around, he’d be taking a break from his Teams calls to fuel up for the rest of his late work night. Mum would have whipped up some simple fare ready to heat up: rice (a must for dad), a simple stir-fried green vegetable, Chinese-style omelette and maybe some fried fish or soy-sauce prawns. It was always delicious, and she’d always say “ah, I just threw it all together in one pot, no big deal.” These are vignettes I wish I appreciated more at the time, because feeling that whole, that safe and full of love, is one of the things I miss most.

Today marks a year since she’s been gone. “How are you” has become a question that’s hard to answer. My family and I have given this year our best attempt at thriving and I’m super proud of how we’ve tried: seeking active mental health support, talking to our friends, spending more family time with one another even with the gulf of continents between us.

Brenda and her mum smiling together on a cobbled street in Edinburgh, bundled in coats and holding each other close on a bright winter day.

My family and I will be choosing a charity to donate to every year in her honour (one each.) I’ll be making mine to Coppafeel this year, and then doing the quite painful act of memorialising her Facebook account. Nobody tells you about the amount of ‘death admin’ that comes after someone you adore leaves you. I can’t speak for my father or sister but if you asked me, the best advice I’ve been given about grief is that it never gets smaller, but you grow around it:

Illustration of grief staying the same size while life slowly grows around it—based on the “Growing Around Grief” model by Lois Tonkin.

And yeah, grief is also an angry red circle, waiting to boil over at the most inopportune moments (like the supermarket, or the train, or really awkwardly in a packed elevator that one time.) But it’s becoming an angry red circle I’m getting to know better. If that’s what I keep of my wonderful, complicated, funny mum, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Love you always mum. Always have, and always will. 💕