Tenanglah, Ibu

It’s strange, really, how everything can change in a moment. One call. That’s all it took. When Kak Dira first called me, I felt strangely calm, almost numb. It’s as if some part of me couldn’t accept it, couldn’t believe it could actually be happening. I called Abang right after, maybe hoping he’d say it was all a mistake, that Ibu was still there, still with us. But when he answered, I heard the truth in his voice. Ibu had gone. She’d left us. She’d left me.

I sat there for a moment, just trying to absorb it, but it didn’t really sink in. I moved on autopilot, packing my things, waiting for Ah to come and pick me up in Seremban. Then, in the quiet, the tears came, almost like a flood, each one heavier than the last. It was as though the ground itself was crumbling beneath me. I’ve always thought I was strong enough to handle whatever came my way, but this…this was different. Nothing could prepare me for the ache of knowing I’d never see her again.

The last time I spoke to Ibu was only the night before. I’d called to reassure her, to try to ease her worries, as she had been feeling upset and frustrated. She was meant to be discharged but wasn’t allowed to go home, and I could hear the exhaustion and disappointment in her voice. I tried to calm her, to tell her everything would be alright. I never thought that would be our last conversation. I would have said so much more if I’d known. But I didn’t. And so, there was no real goodbye, no time to say everything I needed to say.

When I finally walked back into the house, it felt as though I was stepping into a stranger’s home. The same walls, the same furniture, yet everything felt off, as if something fundamental had shifted. The first few days, I didn’t feel anything at all. Maybe I was still pretending, convincing myself that Ibu would be back any day now. She’d been in the hospital for almost a month, so her absence had already left a kind of gap, a silence I’d gotten used to. My mind kept telling me she was simply still in hospital, that any day now, she’d be back in her usual spot, in the heart of our home.

But slowly, that illusion started to unravel. Every day, it became harder to ignore. She wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t escape that gnawing truth. The silence in the house felt so loud; her absence filled every corner. It’s a strange emptiness, a hollowness that settles around you like fog, heavy and suffocating. Even with family around, even with everyone trying to keep busy, there’s an unspoken awareness of her absence. This house that once held so much warmth, her warmth, now feels like a shell.

It’s only now that I fully understand what it means to be an anak yatim piatu, a parentless child. I lost Abah when I was just a child, too young to remember him, too young to understand. His absence was like a shadow, always there but somehow softened by Ibu’s presence, by her strength. Now, with her gone, I feel the full weight of what it means to be parentless, to be without those who brought me into this world, who loved me in ways no one else could. It’s a part of life you hope you’ll never have to know, and yet here I am, left to find my way without them.

This journey has been overwhelming in ways I never anticipated. There’s this strange mix of feelings, overwhelming and confusing. Ibu never liked to burden us with her worries, her responsibilities. She carried her own world quietly, handling everything in her own way. Now, there are pieces of her life that I’m only just discovering, things like her savings, her hibah, her plans for us. I wish she were here to explain them, to guide me through all these unknowns. But that’s the thing with loss; it doesn’t just take away the person, it leaves you with all the things you’ll never know.

I have moments when I wish, selfishly, that she could have stayed just a bit longer. I wanted her to see the things I’m striving for, the dreams I hoped would make her proud. I had so many milestones left to reach, and I wanted her to be there for each one, cheering me on in her quiet, loving way. But my aunt, Mama, keeps reminding me that maybe this was what was best for her. Maybe she was just too tired, too worn out to keep going. And there’s some comfort in that, in knowing her struggles are over, perhaps she’s free of the burdens she never let us see.

I’m learning that grief doesn’t have a timeline. It’s something I carry with me now, not a chapter to be closed but a part of my story that will grow with me. There are days when I feel I’m holding it together, distracting myself with tasks, pushing through the busyness. And then there are days when everything slows down, and I feel the full weight of it all, the quiet, aching absence of her.

In those quiet moments, when I feel lost, I imagine her beside me, like a silent encouragement, reminding me to keep moving forward. She’s not here physically, but I feel her presence in the small things, the values she taught me, the strength she embodied. And maybe that’s what it means to carry someone with you, even when they’re gone—they become a part of who you are, guiding you from within.

I don’t know what comes next, and honestly, I feel a bit daunted by it. But I’ll keep going, not just for me, but for Ibu and Abah, for all the dreams they had for me and all the love they gave. I’ll carry them with me, letting them be part of everything I accomplish, every challenge I face, every step forward.

Writing this, I feel like I’m finally letting myself sit with these feelings, letting them flow in a way I haven’t yet. This is my journey now, learning to live with this loss, letting myself feel it, and finding a way to honour their memory in everything I do. It’s not easy, and there are no answers. But I’ll keep going, step by step, trusting that somehow, I’ll find my way.

Tenanglah, Ibu. I love you, always and forever.