Father was the 8th child in his family, given away to his parents’ neighbors. His birth mother, was reportedly a prominent female police officer in the 1940s. She was tall and beautiful, likely Peranakan, and married to a swimming coach. They moved from Kampong San Teng (present-day Bishan) to Opera Estate, then to an area in Westlake Avenue.
She received beatings from her husband, divorced him, and married a Caucasian. Father, like his two other sisters “A” and “R”, were adopted. He was very bitter about being given away, unable to understand why a seemingly well-to-do family would not want him as their son. He attended Presbyterian Boys School (today Kuo Chuan Presbyterian Secondary School) but quit in Secondary 1.
Growing up, I had only faint memories of Father. He would come home once every few days, sometimes disappearing for weeks. During his absences, debtors would knock on our doors. Some were friendly, sitting on our sofa and chatting while asking about Father’s whereabouts. Others were not so kind. I vividly remember being traumatised at age 10, opening the door to a loan shark, threatening to lock our gates.
Mother shared stories from their marriage. Once, in a desperate attempt to avoid debtors, Father drove my pregnant mother all the way to Genting, gambling all night while leaving her out in the cold. The stress was so severe that Mother had contemplated suicide, once considering jumping out of the window with my brother and me.
In 1993, when I was in primary school, Father completely abandoned our family. He left home and never came back. Life was challenging during this period. The bills and the debtors gradually reduced. I later learned that my aunts, “A” and “R”, had been supporting our HDB mortgage when my brother and I were kids. The financial situation had gotten so out of hand that I recall a day when men came to repossess items from our flat, pasting stickers on our belongings. I remembered our TV was taken away.
Years passed, and we had no contact with Father. Then, unexpectedly, he contacted us. It must have been around 2018. He called Mother’s home phone and asked to meet. Fearing he might try force his way to move back into the flat (as he was still the legal occupier), we met at the void deck of Mother’s place.
Father appeared in formal business attire, with that distinctive perfume smell that I recognised from my childhood (which I now know today was Chanel). Instead of apologizing, he asked for $10,000. I do not recall exactly how the conversation went, but I must have completely rejected the idea, which offended him. He raised his voice and spoke sternly to the effect, “Who do you think you are to speak to your father this way?” Despite being married with two kids by then, I felt like a child again.
Mother took this opportunity to verbally express her intention to divorce. In his equally adrenaline-filled state, Father agreed.
We parted ways. My mum and brother head back up the lift. I walked in the direction of my home, accompanying him back to his car along the way. I had a feeling I might never see him again. In that moment, I was reminded of God’s unconditional love for us. In an attempt to reconcile, I asked if he’d like to have a drink with me nearby, which to my surprise he calmly agreed. We walked to a nearby coffee shop, where he had a coffee. We chatted about my brother, my work, and how apparently, he had unsuccessfully stalking us on Facebook. He shared that he was involved in some manpower business, arranging phantom workers to facilitate hiring foreigners. Not surprising. I asked if he had another family outside, that I would not hold anything against him, which he promptly denied. As we parted, we exchanged numbers, hoping to keep in touch and for him to meet his grand children. I told him that I loved him. I wished my brother had a similar opportunity for closure.
Later that night, he texted me, reflecting on how things could have been different. In the same message, he asked (or phished?) for my NRIC, saying he wanted to will me his Medisave. Suspecting he was trying to obtain my personal details for his phantom worker operation, I declined.
Over the next few weeks, we exchanged messages and had one or two short calls. I thought it was a chance to rebuild our relationship, to understand him better. We stopped communicating shortly, after the divorce proceedings began. It was clear he wanted me to take sides, which put me in an conflicting position. Our last interaction must have been a year later during a Father’s Day service at church. Reminded to honor our parents, I texted him that I was thinking about him and missed him. He never replied, ghosting me for a second time.
The divorce proceedings didn’t go well for Father. Mother had a very strong case against him due to his abandonment of the family. He lost the case badly, with the flat ownership transferred entirely to Mother. There were also issues with accrued interest that he had to return, but couldn’t afford, which I supposed my aunts helped supplement eventually.
Through my aunts and through his belongings, I learned more about Father’s life after he left us. He had lived in various places, including a terrace house at Serangoon Road and two other properties which he sold at a sizable profit. Ironically, these profits led to tax issues, with IRAS documents showing he owed over $200,000 in taxes. There was even a letter stating he wasn’t allowed to leave the country due to unpaid taxes. My aunts had effectively supported him financially over the years, paying for his rent in a studio apartment in the heart of Orchard, and a rented car.
Father wore many hats throughout his life: an escort to celebrities, a tailor, involved in fire insurance, printing, and a lumber business (which I later learned had been consumed by fire). He made money but lost it betting on horses and 4D. In his latter years, he attempted a backpacking hostel business overseas, but I suppose it didn’t work out well.
On September 19, 2024, at 9:07 pm, I received a call from Mother. She had been contacted by Tanglin police station, informing her that Father had passed away in his home. Mother informed her two sisters, my aunts “A” and “R”. “A” wept upon hearing the news.
The next morning, we went to the mortuary to collect Father’s body. At the entrance, we encountered a sizable number of reporters. They asked if I was there to collect a “Vincent.” I explained I was there for Father, but I didn’t know him as Vincent, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he had changed his name. I remember in my youth receiving phone calls from banks asking for my Dad, sometimes asking for a Michael or a Francis. Thankfully, it turned out the reporters were there for someone else who had died in the Kaki Bukit fire the day before.
We identified the body. Father’s face was unrecognizable to me - an old, frail man with his right hand grasping his throat area. “A” told me he had been hospitalized earlier in the year for breathlessness. The doctors had said his lungs were in very poor condition, likely due to a lifetime of smoking, resulting in chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). In his last days, he must have had a great deal of difficulty getting from one short distance to another.
The death certificate stated the cause of death as ischemic heart disease at 11:26 am. We proceeded to Mandai Crematorium for the cremation service within the same day. Respecting my aunts’ wishes, a Taoist monk performed the last rites. It was heartbreaking to see the body cremated, realizing that all of Father’s life had culminated in this very moment, with only his siblings and the family he had abandoned present.
The day after the cremation, we went to Father’s studio apartment to clear his belongings. We met Sara, the Indian security guard who introduced himself as someone close to Father. Sara had found Father’s body in the toilet and had been buying meals for him daily, with Father’s last meal being Mee Goreng.
The room was in disarray - a container of urine by his bedside, unflushed toilet, things strewn all over the bed and floor, broken eggshells in the sink. I couldn’t help but question how a man could choose to abandon his wife and children to live in such conditions.
We did a cursory scan of his items, collecting valuables (including a counterfeit Patek Philippe watch) and cash. We found multiple phones, a tablet, and various personal effects. His Facebook account revealed another identity he had created, under another fictitious name, born in 1991. It almost seemed like a one-man scam centre.
We also found his car keys for a Toyota Vios that had clocked about 140,000 km. My aunts explained that the car didn’t actually belong to him; it was a rental.
The next day, as we continued clearing the apartment, I came across a small pile of photos. There was one of him with a Vietnamese girlfriend from the mid-90s, pictures of his timber business, and strangely, photos of him with a Malay community, including young children in tudungs. A mentioned he had helped out at an orphanage in the past and had even adopted two girls in some other country.
We found multiple bottles of perfumes (Chanel seemed to be his scent of choice), boxes of medications, and at least four fans in the air-conditioned studio apartment. My aunts often commented, “We bought this for him, and he did not use,” or “Why did he ask us to buy this when he already had so many?”
I also discovered that my WhatsApp messages to “A” hadn’t been delivered. It turned out my number was blocked on her phone, likely by Father. This realization was painful, making me wonder what I could have done to deserve such treatment.
After clearing the apartment, I checked his mailbox using a passcode provided by the agent. Strangely, none of the letters were addressed to him, but to previous occupants of the unit.
The day after clearing the apartment, we went to the Garden of Peace to scatter Father’s ashes. We chose plot B, for Begonia. It was an extremely hot and scorching day. The ashes were contained in a dark grey, cylindrical cardboard box. We took turns scattering the ashes into a designated area where plants were growing over a drainage system. Afterward, we used watering cans to wash down the ashes, ensuring they were washed down.
As I reflect on Father’s life and death, I’m reminded by the complexity of human relationships and the lasting impact of our choices. While Father left us and caused much pain, I recognize that without him, I wouldn’t exist, nor would my children. This experience has taught me to treasure my own family and to never take my children for granted.
I’ve also witnessed the incredible compassion and long-suffering love my aunts showed Father over the years, despite his flaws and mistakes. Their dedication, even in the face of exploitation, is both inspiring and heartbreaking.
Father’s lifestyle choices have left a lasting impression on me. Despite his financial struggles, he insisted on maintaining certain luxuries - a car he couldn’t afford and a residence in the heart of Orchard. This paradox serves as a powerful reminder of the importance of living humbly and within one’s means. It’s a sobering illustration of how easy it is to embrace luxury but how challenging it can be to reverse course once accustomed to it.
Throughout this journey, I’ve come to understand that while we can’t change the past, we can learn from it. Father’s life serves as a cautionary reminder of the importance of being present for our loved ones, the profound effects our actions can have on others, and the value of living modestly and responsibly.
In the end, I choose to honor Father’s memory not for the man he was, but for the lessons his life has taught me. I’m grateful for the perspective this experience has given me on family, forgiveness, the preciousness of the relationships we hold dear, and the wisdom of maintaining a humble lifestyle.
Psalm 103
Praise the Lord, my soul;
all my inmost being, praise his holy name.
Praise the Lord, my soul,
and forget not all his benefits—
who forgives all your sins
and heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the pit
and crowns you with love and compassion,
who satisfies your desires with good things
so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.
The Lord works righteousness
and justice for all the oppressed.
He made known his ways to Moses,
his deeds to the people of Israel:
The Lord is compassionate and gracious,
slow to anger, abounding in love.
He will not always accuse,
nor will he harbor his anger forever;
he does not treat us as our sins deserve
or repay us according to our iniquities.
For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his love for those who fear him;
as far as the east is from the west,
so far has he removed our transgressions from us.
As a father has compassion on his children,
so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;
for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.
The life of mortals is like grass,
they flourish like a flower of the field;
the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.
But from everlasting to everlasting
the Lord’s love is with those who fear him,
and his righteousness with their children’s children—
with those who keep his covenant
and remember to obey his precepts.
The Lord has established his throne in heaven,
and his kingdom rules over all.
Praise the Lord, you his angels,
you mighty ones who do his bidding,
who obey his word.
Praise the Lord, all his heavenly hosts,
you his servants who do his will.
Praise the Lord, all his works
everywhere in his dominion.
Praise the Lord, my soul.