This story is a user submission to In Real Life. All names and places have been changed for their privacy.
The call came in the early morning, 3:33 am, when a person’s life force is the weakest. By 04:05, I was at PPUM. Barely an hour later, the doctors delivered the news to me and my family: My ah ba (father) was gone.
He was only 62. He was active and fit, and I had lunch with him the day before, sharing his favorite har kao and siu mai. 24 hours later, all I could smell was the sterile antiseptic of the hospital as it clung to my clothes.
“I lost the strength from my body and dropped to the floor.”
At that moment, as I was signing the paperwork confirming that the lifeless person on a steel mortuary table was my father, it hit me like a hammer blow that dropped the weight of the world upon my shoulders. I fell to the floor.
For several long minutes, I forgot how to breathe. Numb, shaking, and directionless, it felt like the hammer was crushing me beneath its weight. Faces around me blurred as I stared into the distance, disconnected from the life ripped away from me.
I was unable to make sense of the storm of emotions. How was this real? How could he be gone?
I was approached by a stranger.
I heard his footsteps before I saw him. His quiet approach was somehow filled with a sense of courtesy and respect. At first, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be near anyone. But before I could pull away, he spoke gently, “Are you okay?”
Hesitating, I looked up at the man standing a few feet from me. He didn’t wear scrubs, a white coat, or a name tag, but he wore a kind expression on his face.
Of course, I wasn’t okay. But I realised – he wasn’t here to fix me. And somehow, that was a lifeline. My throat tightened and I fought back tears. And, for reasons I can’t quite explain, that let me speak.
“I’ve just lost my ah ba,” I blurted out.
The words sounded hollow, unreal, as if they belonged to someone else. “I’m here to identify him.”
Saying it out loud made everything sharper, and the pain slid through the fog of shock. The man just nodded, his eyes soft but unwavering, like he understood the magnitude of what I was feeling.
Before I could hold myself back, I started blabbering, non-stop: I described the phone call I’d gotten from the hospital, the panic and fear that gripped me when I realised something was horribly wrong, and finally, the sheer horror of seeing him, lifeless, in the morgue.
“I hadn’t realised how much I needed to just say everything I had been holding in.”
It was like a dam had burst. I started spilling everything I remembered about my dad: about his favourite long drives, how he’d ruffle my hair and laugh, how he was always there when I needed my papa.
Tears streamed down my face, but this stranger—this man I had never seen before—didn’t try to comfort me with empty words or platitudes. He just stood there, present in my pain, and let me fall apart.
I shook as I cried, the sobs tearing through me. My body felt like it was betraying me, refusing to contain the pain. And still, the stranger stood there, offering me tissues and a quiet strength that helped me breathe through the worst of it.
I felt a sense of relief wash over me.
As I spoke, I felt something shift inside me. Not the grief; that was still there, raw and overwhelming. But there it was: A small, fragile sense of relief.
I had been feeling like the world was continuing on without me, that I had to keep a strong face in front of my family and relatives, but this stranger was there to show me I wasn’t alone at that moment.
There was something deeply comforting in having him there, with me in my darkness and not trying to be a light.
“His silence wasn’t empty; it was full of empathy.”
And it made me feel like maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t as alone in my grief as I thought. Slowly, I felt my breathing steady, my sobs softening into something less raw.
As I wiped my eyes, I thanked him. My words felt small, insufficient, but it didn’t matter. He just smiled, a sad, knowing smile, and told me to take care of myself. There was something in the way he said it that made me think he knew this kind of pain all too well.
And then, just like that, he was gone. He had appeared in my life when I needed it most, and even though we didn’t exchange names or contact details, his kindness stayed with me long after that moment.
I’ll always remember that stranger and his kindness.
In the days and weeks after my father’s death, I found myself reflecting on my encounter with this kind stranger.
In the early stages of my father’s passing, I had just wanted to reject the emotions and tuck it away, never to see the light of day. But after my break down in front of the stranger, I no longer wished to fix the pain or make it go away.
As I went through with the funeral, talking to my relatives, talking to my mother, my siblings, I found myself in his position – showing up, listening, and being there—even if it’s just for a short while.
Losing my father was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to face, but this stranger’s compassion helped me start to face the overwhelming emotions I had been pushing away.
I don’t know who he was, and I never saw him again, but what he did for me in that moment was more than just offering some kind words of sympathy. His quiet strength and willingness to listen—gave me something I didn’t expect: Hope.
And for that, I will always be grateful.
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