Spill the Veritaserum

Mummy and I do this thing:

“Who’s mummy’s darling?” she would say.

“Pig,” I would reply, referencing my cat.

“Nooo—“ 

“Then Popsie—“

“Nooooo—“

“Then che che, and then me,” I’d conclude putting myself at the bottom of the list after my elder sister. 

In high pitched protest, “Noooo, where got. You are Mummy’s one and only daaaaarling,” she would say, grabbing my hand and sniffing it. 

And usually, this is how it ends. But today, today was different. It continued. 

“No lah, tipu,” I say, calling her a liar in Malay. 

“Tsk. Why do you always put yourself last, baby?”

I pause. “You’re right,” I say, but Mummy doesn’t know what she’s right about. I do put myself last.

But right as I’m having these thoughts, she fills the silence. “Pig was a good cat,” followed by about 10 seconds of silence before she says, “Popsie also, he was a good man too, if you look at the big picture.”

And there it was. I’ve always heard about the greatness of others, but never of my own. Not from her, anyway. It always came from Pops. He always reminded me of my worth, reassuring that I’ m enough and more for the things I want to do in life.

He held so much love for me that I subconsciously didn’t feel the full need to get the love of the boys at school or in college. It would have been nice to have a committed boyfriend, I used to think, but if I don’t, it’s okay. I’m still so loved.

Fast-forward to the day before he died. The day of his amputation surgery. Mom and I were not talking to him properly anymore. He knew that we were there because we were obliged to. He knew that this time, he messed up more than before, more than he ever did with the both of us, and I’m pretty sure he was anxious about what he would be faced with once he came out of surgery.

I remember it so well. He was dressed in his gown, his bald head clad with a shower cap while the nurses wheeled him out of the bed bay. They stopped him in the middle of the hallway because he called out to Mum. 

“Mummy! Come here for a while.” His voice is shaky, and I see that his eyes are filled with tears.

He puts up his hand, indicating that he wants to hold hers. Mum, standing next to him with her arms crossed, reluctantly unsticks her hand and holds his. Pops pulls it to his lips, “I love you very much, Mummy. I love you, okay. I love you.”

“Okay okay, love you too, you better get going,” she coldly replies, but there was also a veil of guilt.

“I love you… I love you..” he says over and over to her. Mummy is just staring as they wheel him off.

And here on the other side is me, waiting for him to call for me and tell me he loves me too. But he didn’t. He just waved and I said as he left, “I’ll see you later, pa.” I think deep down we all knew this was the last time we would see him alive.

I’ve brought it up with mom. How silly it feels that I’m feeling very bitter that at that moment, he didn’t say a word to me. I told her she was lucky that those were his last words to her, because I don’t know what his last words were to me.

“He only did it because he was guilty. He knew he lost me and he wanted me back, but I couldn’t stand by him. Not anymore,” she justified. 

“But it doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t tell me he loved me before he died,” I say under my breath. 

I know it’s not on Mum. It was fair she felt that way about Pops, considering that just months before, she and I had both walked out on him after decades of gaslighting.

For Mummy, it was more than two decades of serial cheating. She knew about them, but didn’t say a word. She wanted to keep the family together, keep me sheltered. Even after I was aware of the truth, she still wanted to do the same. Old habits die hard i guess.

But it still doesn’t change the fact that she got his final “I love you”, and I got a wave. Mummy says he did that because he knew that he didn’t need to tell me because I already knew. 

“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t deserve to hear it.” There it is, the same words I’ve said to several boyfriends in the past. 

At the point of departure is when these things come to light because I said these exact same words when I broke up with three boys before this. But in all these instances, it’s too late. It seemed to be a recurring thing. 

But I didn’t expect it from Pops. I didn’t think that when it mattered, he wouldn’t say what he always said to me. A simple “I love you” like he did every day. And looking at this entire scenario, is it no wonder that I put myself last?

There’s always someone more important, or something more dire to address. Always a justification of why I’m not the first. It never was that way with Pops, and in the end, even he took the opportunity to assuage his guilt, rather than realise that I never left his side. 

Deep down I know his love for me isn’t diminished. I know he meant every single word he said to me when he was alive and that should count for something. And I know I was so loved, even until the end. So why, because of miniscule instances like this, do I still put myself last?

Perhaps one day, someone other than Pops will properly put me first. And see me for who I really am. And love me wholeheartedly like he did. And maybe that will be the day that I will forgive him for leaving me with just a wave. 

And even if that day never comes, I wouldn’t know where to start learning how to cling on to the love he did give when he was alive. I’d like to believe that love works like the Law of Conservation of Mass-Energy. It can’t be destroyed, it just changes form. Which means that it should be all around me — at home, at work, when I drive anywhere. And yet, I can’t feel it. 

Hopefully one day, I will find it again. But until then, I’ll hold on to the fact that at the very least, one person put me first. My Popsie.