When I was feeling particularly sad, I would play out the memories where Mother seemed fragile, ornate, decorated with her jade bracelet. She was delicate, gorgeous, and sang like a bird. In these moments, I thought of her as being too fragile and weak, tired of performing. I wondered if being our mother led to her brokenness.

But if she was broken, she must have healed by now. For how could someone that broken make such a monumental trip again across the world; her fragility, I thought, was a state of being that existed only in Canada. Perhaps her seemingly frail existence in my childhood was not a sign of brokenness but a record of who she was at the time.

Other times, I saw her as a wilfully disobedient person. With an irritable resentment, I recalled her monologues, her debates with Father, and silently accused her of creating unnecessary crises and emergencies through the carelessness of her actions. She had whipped up her tantrums from irrational fears and deliberately caused trouble. She was selfish, giving no consideration to anyone around her.

Oscillating between these extreme perspectives of Mother, I was violently jerked up and down on a see-saw where, no matter what, my legs could not touch the ground or push away. At first, I attributed this inner struggle to my hormones during my teen years, during pregnancy, and now after giving birth. Then, my body wasn’t mine, and it was operating on its own accord. And now, my body was taking the baby’s interests as its primary concern. My body was always hungry, producing unending liquids, dripping with sweat and milk, simultaneously burning fat and producing it. I didn’t see my waistline diminishing and bitterly could not stop eating in voracious fits. These were novel, unwelcome, and uncomfortable feelings, all stemming from a vain and selfish desire to retain something from my past. It was these compounding, overlapping, and troubling feelings about Mother that led me to this kopitiam. I had to find her, even if I was not sure I could forgive her. I was going to follow my strongest lead and dive into the most enduring relationship that Mother had not eviscerated.

I devoured the kaya toast and tapped my phone to see what time it was. The person I had arranged to meet was forty-five minutes late, and I did not feel guilty about starting breakfast on my own. I saw many people eyeing my table, coveting the seat across from me where my bag held court. I was about to lose hope when, finally, I spotted a woman approaching me. She had shoulder-length, straight, black hair, curled towards her face, and dark sunglasses. Her lips were a perfect shade of maroon, and she wore a white button-up blouse with smart fitted pants.

I stood up to greet Che Eng, my mother’s best friend.

She embraced me and said, “My goodness, I can see your mother in you!”

I winced at the comparison and laughed a deflection. “You’re too kind, but we both know my mother was much prettier.”