TW: suicide warning
This is a story of a woman who came home one day to discover her worst nightmare.
I was coming home from work that late evening. My boyfriend had just dropped me off, and I made my way upstairs to the apartment. In my hand, I carried a bag full of my dad’s favourite kuih. The moment I opened the door, I froze. What I saw shocked me, but I couldn’t scream. I stood there for what felt like hours—but it was probably just a few minutes.
The whole living room was a huge mess. The glass coffee table was shattered, the cushions torn with stuffing spilling out. Broken plates and cups were scattered on the floor near the door. And then, there was my dad’s lifeless body, slumped in the armchair.
I was shocked at the scene, but not surprised. A small part of me always knew this day was coming, though I never could have imagined it like this.
My Father
I’d been living alone with Abah for the past five years. My dad was an alcoholic—I can admit that now. Since I was young, it was common to see him come home drunk. To me, he was always the “fun” type of drunk. He’d let me skip dinner or watch cartoons when I should’ve been sleeping. But the same couldn’t be said for my mom. My dad would shout at her, telling her she was too strict and needed to let go. I never saw him hit her, but I did see him lose his temper and have rage episodes more times than I can count.
After “fun” dad wore off, “angry” dad would appear. By then, I’d usually be sent to my room, and my mom would come tuck me in. But before I could fall asleep, I’d already hear the shouting, the walls being punched, the swearing that carried through the house.
This didn’t happen every night, but often enough that it became normal in our home. I grew up knowing this wasn’t really normal. I learned to leave that part of my dad out of the stories I told friends about my family.
As I got older, I realised my dad was deeply depressed. While he worked from time to time, he often quit or got fired, which left him at home for long stretches. After a few weeks or months, when his money ran out, he’d be persuaded to get another job. He tried everything—from selling pirated DVDs back in the day, to running a Ramly burger stall, to driving a taxi.
My Mother
My mother is a lawyer at a small firm. She met my dad after finishing university and fought her parents to marry him. They didn’t want her to marry him because he was Muslim and she had to convert. But she said she was so in love that she didn’t care. That decision created a huge rift with her family, and they stopped talking.
Her salary kept us afloat. I don’t know exactly how much she earned, but it was enough to live modestly. She was the main breadwinner, responsible for the big bills in the house. There was always food on the table, and the lights never went out. I know she sacrificed so much for me.
When I turned 18, she sat me down. She told me she’d been waiting for me to finish SPM so she could finally make a decision. She wanted a divorce. She said she deserved better than a husband who came home only to get angry at his wife. She was tired of being shouted at and belittled. I agreed with her and supported her.
I was about to move into the dorms for university and didn’t want to leave her alone with my dad. Luckily, she found a place with her sister, whom she had recently reconnected with. She moved out after I left. Knowing my dad, we expected a rage episode, and he didn’t disappoint.
The Last Five Years
After graduating from university, I moved back in with Abah for two reasons: I didn’t want him to live alone, and it was a convenient location for work. I knew I’d eventually move out when I got married, but until then, I wanted to keep him company.
My dad’s health declined over the last few years after he got Covid. He was in and out of the hospital, and when he could, he did e-hailing or sold products to friends. I helped with bills and kept the fridge stocked.
Meanwhile, my mother found peace. She now lives in Seremban with her widowed sister in a laid-back neighbourhood. She spends her days gardening and does freelance legal work when she can. She looks so much happier now.
Walking Into Hell
Walking into my home and finding my dad’s body was like walking into hell. It dragged up every memory from that house. I wasn’t surprised he did this, but I was disappointed in him.
After calling the mosque to arrange the burial, I returned to the wreckage he left behind—a final reminder of his presence in my life. As I scrubbed the floors, the couch, even the curtains, I kept reliving memories from my childhood. Hopefully, this is a chapter closed.
I glanced over at my soft-spoken boyfriend, carefully helping me pick up broken shards of glass, and silently prayed to God that I wouldn’t make the same mistake my mother made.
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