It was a few years back that I began to realise the myriad of facets that God has painted onto the delicate substructure that is my parents’ relationship. I know that no human relationship will ever be perfect: there will be scars, tears, an intricate web of unspoken words, thoughts, fears and failings. But there is beauty in the long-lived, because in the tenor of my parents’ relationship, there is enduring love and utmost acceptance of imperfections both insignificant and significant. Nights ago at an intimidate candle-lit dinner with my family and another family (whom I did not know so well), there was the usual sharing of stories, both serious and light. It was a night like this, however, when my parents spoke wide eyed, of tales long ago. Both sweet and nostalgic. My brother and I sat somewhat captivated, uncharacteristically demure and quiet, soaking up what is really our legacy, stories not in fact fictional or exaggerated, but the truth. Despite being in a close-knit family where ‘no secrets in family’ has been drilled into us since infantile days (though such a mantra is hopelessly flawed; we were scoffing about keeping such a vow even within childhood), it is still difficult to know the entirety of our parents. All we know are our 21 or 19 years of life where our mum and dad have very successfully occupied the role of strong parents, figures of authority, supporters, carers; the ones who have seen me in my worst and helped build me to become my best (always under guidance of Christ). They are a font of knowledge in all aspects of life and I still maintain that there is nothing that I know more than my parents, nothing…except maybe the latest Le Pliage limited edition collection or the better nightclubs in Adelaide (but who really cares about that?!). They are our mummy and daddy. But we did not know them when they first immigrated to Australia, when they were our age and a whole lot less financially privileged than we are now. We had never seen them in the light of youth and vulnerability, for that is exactly what they were. They were both the youngest of many children: My mother moved to Australia at age sixteen, by herself with no contacts. My father’s life was uprooted in the middle of his first year at uni in Burma, when his family decided to immigrate to Australia. Blithely, he picked three uni degree for Sydney, medicine, dentistry and architecture. He laughs as he tell us, with an animated face, that God only knows why but he was blessed to be chosen to do what he is in now. He was the only international student in the entirety of his year to be chosen. We did not know them when my parents met: the first, and the second time; their first date, what convinced them to get married – it is all stuff of fairy tales, a faint mist of bygone years. And within this all, my brother and I quietly acknowledge the divine providence shown, beautifully personal as it is.

Despite my parents’ no-nonsense-type of approach in life and all efforts to wave away iffy signs of intoxicating romance, theirs is truly a romantic story of complexities, drama, life and death. But there is also more: They lead a remarkable life of giving and giving. My brother and I see that they are one unit, and though nothing is unbreakable, on that night, I begin to imagine that theirs must be close. There is the indelible mark of time on their faces, and it is good. And I know that one day, I want to be just like them.

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