In the run-up to Mother’s Day on May 10, I finally read something that has been on my to-read list for a while. The 2021 local book Letter To My Mother: Words Of Love And Perspectives On Growing Up From Sons And Daughters is a collection of 20 essays by contributors sharing their thoughts and feelings about their mothers.

Many of the writers expressed love and admiration for their mothers. They wrote of how their parents inspired and influenced them, and how much their mothers or both parents had given to them. How blessed they were. How grateful.

One talked about her mother’s dedication and care when she was struggling with the effects of kidney disease.

Another shared: “I would not be where I am, were it not for the moments I watched and learnt from you.”

Not all the accounts were cosy and comfortable. Not all families were intact or supportive. One writer spoke of “hurt, hate and resentment”, but also said: “I miss you, you know?”

Regret surfaced often.

“I have never told you this, but when I was living in New York, I looked forward to your phone call every day.”

Why do we never say enough to our loved ones when they are around?

Author and poet Felix Cheong, who edited the collection, wrote in the foreword: “I never got round to a last conversation with Mum in her final days. Discharged from Changi General Hospital on Christmas Eve, 2019, she was living on borrowed time, with only one lung doing the work of two.”

After her death, he recalled: “Over the next few weeks, I would be haunted by what I did not manage to say to Mum. All the thanks I could have offered; all the memories I could have told her that I cherish; all the things she had taught me; all the sacrifices she had made to bring us up – and I said nothing.”

I’m as guilty of silence as much as anyone else. I started writing in this space when my mum was still alive. She faithfully cut out and filed my columns every month. No one does that, not siblings, not your children, only parents.

But I never wrote a piece especially for her while she was alive.

There were many Mother’s Days when I didn’t do anything for or with her aside from a quick peck on the cheek and a “Happy Mother’s Day, Mum”.

She probably said, “No need to do anything special”, and I took her at her word. I might not, if it were now.

But I would like to think that the many small interactions we had every day were something.

Like many older people, Mum needed less and less sleep and she often stayed up until dawn, watching TV or using her phone.

For many years, I was up before the sun. I would head to the dining table to read the newspaper and have a coffee. And when she saw that I was up, she would join me at the table and we would sit and chat.

With the rest of the house dark and silent, before each day’s routine began, our conversations could be about anything. We might discuss the latest in the papers, who was in the obituaries pages, a movie, her plans for the day or week, dreams, her health, pets past and present, updates on her friends or mine, or anything about my children, or my sister and her family.

In the course of living together, of course there were moments – many – of annoyed tones and stiff, offended silences. But we always had this natural chance to restart the day.

I am not a carbon copy of my mum, nor do I wish to be, nor, I think, would she have wanted that. But she had characteristics that I admire and try to emulate as a parent.

By the time I was born, she had stopped working as a teacher, so she was around when I was a child. Zoo, bird park and book fairs were regular outing destinations. We had picnics on St John’s Island and Sunday lunches with the extended family.

Neither she nor my dad were authoritarian or helicopter parents, and I had the space to make my own choices in how I spent my time. Starting from junior college, I don’t think I consulted my parents at all about my subject options or holiday jobs.

But my siblings and I were never unsupported and there was always interest in what we did. My parents had their own hobbies, friends and activities, but family always came first.

When her first grandchild was born 22 years ago, Mum, then 61, switched to becoming a devoted grandmother. She seemed – and I think she genuinely was – happy to help look after Kate, my oldest. When my maternity leave was over, Mum came over every day and I am grateful because it allowed me to resume work full-time.

She loved nothing better than to go shopping for books, toys, clothes and pyjamas for the grandchildren. It’s because of her influence that Kate has an encyclopaedia’s worth of nursery rhymes and children’s songs in her.

To her children and grandchildren, she left a legacy of stories, music, movies, games and fun. I’ll write about her love of April Fool’s Day jokes another time.

When Mum was keen on something, it became her mission to share the joy. If it was a book, everyone would receive it as a gift for Christmas. If she discovered a new restaurant or attraction, she would immediately start planning what groups of friends she could invite to that place. She was always giving things – CDs, VCDs, cakes, local breakfast items – to others with no occasion needed.

We – my sister, dad and I – sometimes got impatient when we got roped into buying or sending over the gift. Looking back now, I wonder: What was the harm? Isn’t it lovely, a privilege, to know a person so sweet and kind?

Mum was famous for being unafraid to stand out from the crowd. If someone in the room was invited to sing, she would be on her feet in no time. She adored colours and snazzy, stylish looks, and had a penchant for crazy earrings. My daughters and I occasionally dip into her wardrobe (still not fully cleared) when we want to jazz up an outfit or look for zany jewellery. And I’m still hanging on to a coat she gave me decades ago – a huge, bold, quilted piece of many colours.

She tried painting, tap dancing, belly dancing, sculpting and glass etching. She was game for new experiences. She enjoyed travelling. With just half her spirit and confidence, one could find something to look forward to every day.

No one column could do her justice. To capture her life would take whole books.

Did you let Mother’s Day go by quietly? Don’t. If you have a great mum like I did, cherish her while she is still in this world.