I sit alone at a kopitiam having my breakfast. Two tables away, a dad and his teenage daughter chat about the day ahead. I can't help but eavesdrop. "I'm gonna go pay first", she says. "Finish up your eggs. Don't waste, there's a little bit more, finish it!", Dad scolds. "There are bits of shell in there", she replies, but finishes it up in obedience. "No offense, pa, but when you cracked the eggs, the shell got in there". "Just today, that one egg, the shell was so thin", he explains. Daughter goes to the counter to pay and returns. Picks up her bag, adjusts her hair in the mirror on the wall and gives her dad a peck on the cheek as she says goodbye.
After she leaves, I feel like commending the man on bringing his kid up the way he did. And what a lovely relationship they have. Something that I will possibly never get to experience. But I refrain. I swallow the last mouthful of my kaya bun and sip my coffee. As tears well up in my eyes, a mother and her two young daughters walk in and occupy the table next to me.
