tears on my pillow

Long, aimless, laughter-filled conversations over food -- that's what life is all about, isn't it?

There was one in a noisy, smoke-filled hawker centre, and then another while strolling around the supermarket [he was going to make pasta for the very first time!], and a final unexpected one at McDonald's until we realised with a start that it was near midnight.

Talk had meandered so much that all I recall now of the hours of conversation is a childhood incident which I had repressed for the past 20 years or so.

Somehow, something he said triggered it off, and I started telling him about a cousin I was particularly close to while growing up. One day, when I was about seven or thereabouts, the entire family migrated to Perth.

I was utterly bereft. The night they left, I wept like I'd never wept before, silently under the blanket.

That was where my mom found me. Instead of comforting me, she mocked my tears by calling up all my aunts and telling them, "She cried! Like someone died like that."

Or words to that effect. Now that this has been dredged up, I feel wounded all over again.