Quiet mornings with Mother; the mornings she made.

I woke up very early this morning. The Art Club was only due to start at 9.30am, but still, I found myself stirring before the sun.

I was in Primary 2.

My regular classes were in the afternoon, but on days when I had morning ECAs, I had to wake up early—though still a little later than my older siblings, who were already off for their own morning sessions. I would also find Father sitting, a moment by himself having breakfast. Father glanced at me, smiled and continued eating.

Mother would send me to school on her way to work at the Japanese company. where she took care of the pantry and tidied the office at the end of the day.

Mother was worried I wouldn’t wake on time on my own, or worse, get lost taking public transport alone. I was usually on a chartered school bus in the afternoons, so these mornings felt different.

Special, even.

We’d arrive at school just after the morning flag-raising ceremony. Mother would walk me to the canteen and sit with me for a while. She’d smooth out the creases in my light blue uniform, remind me not to run around and get dirty before class in the afternoon—“The teachers won’t like it,” she’d say.

Then she’d check my packed lunch. Always something she threw together in the early morning rush: asam pedas today, fish curry on other days. She’d open the packet to make sure it was intact—layers of newspaper lined with wax paper, or sometimes thin food plastic she had cut. She’d lean in to smell the package.

I’d lean in and take a peek. It always smelled delicious.

The canteen would be quiet at that hour—recess still a while away. Before she left, she’d ask if I needed the toilet so she could keep watch over my belongings.

I think she felt safer knowing I was at school, where someone could keep an eye on me, rather than alone at home. Whether it was Art Club, Running Club, or even Choir (!), she’d make sure she was the one to send me off—just so I wouldn’t have to manage the mornings by myself.

That small ritual went on for nearly two years.

Sometimes, after she left, I wished she could’ve stayed until my school session actually began. I’d see one or two classmates with stay-at-home mothers lingering with them, and I’d feel a quiet envy.

I remember asking her all kinds of silly questions just to make her stay a bit longer. Looking back, I now realise how much I treasured those quiet, undistracted mornings—just Mother and me.

Eventually, I learned to eat my lunch during the morning recess. It was easier than sitting alone during the break while others ate. Occasionally, a random kid would try to make fun of me sitting by myself. Eating early gave me comfort.

It was my way of showing that I, too, had something to eat.

Besides, by afternoon, the rice and curry would be soggy—harder to eat, and harder to hide from curious eyes and well-meaning but judgy mothers nearby. Even at that age, I could sense the subtle glances and whispers. I knew.

These days, whenever Mother’s Day comes around, it’s these quiet, small moments from primary school that come back to me. They’re the ones I hold closest. I had her all to myself—no older siblings competing for her attention, no distractions.

Just quiet mornings and the comforting scent of packed lunch, and the gentle presence of Mother, who was simply being a mother.

It was the best part of those days.

Mother and I, Joon Tong Road, circa 1973