I snapped a few pictures of the twilight, adding them to my private collection of landscapes. A small ritual to ease the tug in my chest.
But I couldn't ease my mind on the way home. My dad had Alzheimer's. The doctors diagnosed it more than two years ago. His thoughts were still sharp, but his body betrayed him—limbs weakening, digestion starting to fail, degeneration accelerating faster than we expected. There was nothing we could do.
It was the main reason I moved my little family back into my parents' house. The day I read his diagnosis, a voice in my head whispered, three years. Then another, harsher, cut in: she leaves a year after that.
I never told anyone about it. I only asked Auriel to open her tarot. She told me plainly to prepare.
I was still lost in the weight of it and then Kaelen's message pulled me back.
Just got home," I replied.
How's your dad, babe?"
He's just grumpy and wants me to soothe him."
I'd told him about my parents before, so he understood what I had to do at home. They wanted me close—not because my siblings weren't filial, but because they felt more confident with me around.
The yoga therapy course I'd taken years earlier now became a daily ritual of care. Deep down I held onto some hope the voice wouldn't come true. Or at least that I could bargain for more time.
~~~
My parents' defining trait was their love. Childhood sweethearts. My dad always treated my mom like a princess, and my mom lived up to it—willful, stubborn, beautiful.
Her only passion was reading, though it frustrated her when age made it harder.
With parents like that, we children learned independence early, caring for ourselves since we were little. None of us minded.
Watching their marriage endure decades, love still intact, was enough.
When Dad finally retired, it was more relief than loss. We were all grown, ready to support them in return.
***
Then the restrictions loosened. Kaelen asked to meet. He'd pick me up from the office, and we'd look for a suitcase. He was needed for several projects abroad.
We strolled the mall at leisure.
"You have no idea how much stuff I've hoarded during this stay, sayang," he said—half excuse, half confession.
The truth was, he planned to leave some belongings at Fairmont until he returned.
"I only need a decent suitcase to keep my stuff. Nothing fancy, as long as it's sturdy and not pricey."
I frowned, wondering—did I look like a suitcase inspector? But I only nodded, showing him shops that sold local products. His Indonesian was enough to get by, though I translated here and there. He inspected everything with his usual precision—measuring, comparing, weighing volume against price—until he narrowed it to two options from different shops.
"What do you think, sayang? Which one should I choose?"
"The blue one. It's bigger and cheaper. And you said you didn't need a fancy one."
"You think so?"
I nodded.
"Then let's circle back after lunch. You're hungry, right?"
I smiled. This was his pattern—delay decisions, stretch time with me.
Lunch wasn't just lunch. It was another hour borrowed before flights and projects pulled him elsewhere.
I should've just enjoyed it, but part of me kept watching him too closely, storing every choice—blue suitcase or black, rice or noodles, another hour or two—as memory. As if one day, I'd need them when he was away.
We took separate taxis from the mall. He had packing to do. Late that night, rummaging through my tote bag, I found an envelope he had slipped in. A stack of Singaporean dollars.
It stopped me. Quiet, deliberate. As if he knew I'd only find it when I was alone. It made me think—too much, maybe.
It was the first time he ever gave me money.
I never talked about my finances in detail, though I'd mentioned bits here and there. He was a foreigner, and I knew how much he despised women chasing foreigners for money. It was one of the reasons the online platform where we'd first met collapsed—platonic exchanges turned into transactions.
I felt giddy, because I trusted he never thought of me that way. But yes, that quiet stack of cash made me overthink.
But I also didn't know how to ask him.
Sayang, why do you give me money? What for?" In the end curiosity won. I sent the message.
Double blue ticked. Read. No reply.
[...]
I woke up still in a haze with vibration messages on my phone screen. Kaelen.
Not a selfie, not his breakfast like everyone else online. A picture of dawn breaking over the airport windows, streaked with orange, a sliver of plane wing in the corner. Beneath it, his words:
30 kg excess baggage 😑"
I felt a pinch. Wait. Figuratively speaking, it was his wallet. I shouldn't feel a thing.
He was flying a business class club and still got 30 kg. I wondered what he hoard.
"Sorry to hear that sayang. Good morning." My sleepy voice sent.
I glanced at the phone clock, making sure from the half open curtain on my window that it was not yet sunrise.