Our taxi driver informed me that the city was experiencing a renaissance, with artists attracted to the low rents for both apartments and studio space, and tourists eager to try tasty local favourites such as white coffee, chicken rice, and Hakka mee.

I asked the driver whether he had heard of Kong Heng, the kopitiam where mother had worked. Apparently, the place was still standing and hadn’t changed since the 1980s. He told me his grandfather had taken him there every weekend, and there had always been a sea of people hovering around the tables like pigeons looking for crumbs. The driver emphasized it was an authentic kopitiam, and that some of the hawker stalls in the open-air coffee shop were the same as when he was a little boy. He added that we should definitely talk to the auntie at the popiah stall, since she had been serving the Hokkien-style pancake spring rolls there the longest. And the uncle at the chee cheong fun stall, with its savoury rice noodle rolls, was a close second.

The next day I found myself wandering in the old town of Ipoh. The colonial buildings flanking the pink mountains reminded me of the forlorn pink motel in Michel, the ghost town on the outskirts of Sparwood. I stood before them, looking for the kopitiam Sin Yoon Loong, where I’d heard they had the best white coffee. Famous in this part of the world, the white coffee’s nutty, less bitter taste comes from the shorter roast at lower temperatures with palm oil margarine, turning the bean a whitish colour. Here, the white coffee is not complete without sweetened condensed milk. When a cup was placed in front of me, I sipped the hot, creamy drink so quickly I had to order another right away. I also satisfied my craving for the region’s signature kopitiam breakfast of soft-boiled eggs with kaya toast, buttered and spread with the sweet coconut jam.

I found a seat under a whirring ceiling fan to wait for my breakfast and checked my WhatsApp messages. Nothing. As I dove into my second cup of white coffee, I realized this was one of the rare moments I was alone on this trip, and I loved the silence within me amid the chaos of loud voices, cups kissing saucers, and motorbikes and cars honking outside. I was so tired. More than the travelling, it was because of the careful conversations I had to have with family about the past, the unruly emotions I had to wrestle with in response to the discoveries and non-discoveries, all while repeating the unending cycle of diaper changes, feeding, and coaxing Leo into naps. John and I had discussed the possibility that I was experiencing postpartum depression, but in my heart, I felt my heaviness was more than that. Ever since Leo was born, I had felt Mother’s presence everywhere, like her essence was a heavy cape wrapped around my neck, dragging me down. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She came into my dreams, often appearing as the beautiful, murky figure from my childhood, only to transform into a vampire-like creature with long black hair.