Behind a haze of smoke, the lightning-fast street hawkers of Lau Pa Sat in Singapore leaned over their grill stations, brushing row after row of skewered chicken, prawns and squid tentacles with spicy peanut sauce. Flames rising and fat spitting, they deftly fanned each order on to serving trays before sending them out into the night.
The open-air market was an exhilarating tangle of diners searching for vacant tables and servers delivering dishes and cold beers. Among it all, Mum was perched uncomfortably, scanning a menu with exasperation. “I’m not hungry,” she said. Maybe she’d pictured a calmer scene for our final meal, but I was annoyed and my frustration simmered.
For two weeks we’d spent almost every waking moment together on a cruise ship, a holiday to celebrate Mum’s 60th birthday with my husband Pete and her best friend Lesley.
We’d flown to Hong Kong and stopped in Vietnam and Thailand. I’d never expected to go on a cruise in my thirties, but went with an open mind to make Mum’s birthday wish come true.
It was nearly 10 years since Dad had passed away from cancer. We were still grappling with the loss and while it had drawn us closer, it also intensified our relationship. Without Dad’s calming presence, our differences were magnified and often flared into heated arguments.
The first few days had gone smoothly enough – waving off Hong Kong’s skyline and marvelling at Hạ Long Bay’s emerald islands in Vietnam. We settled into a new routine meeting by the great suspended tree in the central atrium of the ship and sipping Martini sundowners on the upper deck. But, as temperatures rose, so did our irritability. I was late for breakfast before our day trip to Hội An, and Mum wouldn’t let it go.
That day I poured my energy into finding the best bánh mì baguettes. Weaving our way past tailors and fruit stalls, a rainbow of silk lanterns strung above us, I hadn’t noticed Mum and her friend struggling to keep up. As we tucked in, chilli oil running down our chins, the mood was tense.
I began to realise we might have different travel ideals; my packed itinerary of temple visits and café-hopping might not suit Mum. Still, we kept tight-lipped, determined to enjoy Hội An’s ancient beauty.
But when a friendly debate one night ended in a blazing row, surrounded by oblivious silent disco dancers, I felt shocked that our opinions differed so much and ashamed that we constantly needed to prove each other wrong. It was exhausting.
Thankfully, the ship docked overnight in Bangkok and we agreed to split up for 24 hours. My husband and I took a longtail boat tour through the winding canals of the Chao Phraya river. We explored the city’s tucked-away riverside neighbourhoods where the humid air was spiked with diesel fumes from the boat’s noisy engine.
The highlight was stumbling across the capital’s largest Buddha statue – a 64m-high icon rising from the great Wat Pak Nam Temple. The serenity of snoozing stray dogs and trickling water was a welcome retreat from the scorching city. As we walked barefoot across the cool tiles, I pledged to be more patient with mum and have a bit more empathy.
Reaching Singapore, I hoped to lift our spirits with a stay at the luxurious Marina Bay Sands resort from where we could explore the city’s enticing hawker scene. As I watched Mum swim to the infinity pool’s edge, tears stung my eyes – a gut-punch of grief for Dad, but also for her and for us.
We felt further apart than ever before. I didn’t want to confront things on the trip in case it made things worse, but the need to talk properly when we got home niggled constantly. Tensions were still high even on the flight home – in fact, we were barely speaking after some heated words in the airport lounge. Pete admitted he found our rows quite difficult to watch.
Once I was home I let the tears fall. A week later mum and I sat down to talk. It felt like exhaling a breath I’d been holding for years.
Mum explained she was holding on to the anger of loss – she found it painful that Dad wasn’t there, especially during quieter moments. She also felt old when she struggled to keep up with us during the busier parts of our itinerary.
I shared my fears of disappointing her. We realised that by constantly pushing things down, the tension would keep bubbling over. To break this cycle we agreed to try family counselling. We’re now learning to have more open conversations and address our shared grief.
We can even look back on the good memories from the cruise as well as the tougher ones. It hadn’t been a complete disaster – the trip pushed us to address the tension and move to the most honest, peaceful place we’ve been in years. For that I’ll always be grateful.