CHAPTER 166

2026-07-14

As unexpected events accumulate, I have come to realize that the unexpected is simply part of ordinary life.

My wife, Yau Chee, passed away suddenly and without warning. It was something I never anticipated. Yet the arrival of sudden changes themselves was not unfamiliar to me.

I have often said that throughout life we worry about countless things, but only a few of them actually happen. When hardship does arrive, it rarely unfolds the way we imagined. From an emotional perspective, they all come as surprises. But after experiencing enough of them, I have come to understand that surprises are simply part of everyday life.

Looking back over the past two years, I can divide my life into two stages. The first year was about adapting to life with one less person. The second year has been about learning how to live on my own.

During this time, my younger son has continued to live with me and has been a constant companion. Every Wednesday evening, I still visit Lun at his group home during dinnertime.

Yau Chee and I walked through life side by side for forty-seven years. For nearly forty-one of those years, we built a family together. Our lives became almost inseparable. We each had our own responsibilities, and over time those roles became second nature. We were like two bonsai trees growing together in the same pot, carefully pruned and shaped over the years, our branches twisting and intertwining in every direction. From the outside, we appeared to be one. But when one tree is suddenly gone, the one that remains is left feeling strangely empty and unsupported.

Adapting to life with one less person means that, in practical terms, my partner is no longer here. The empty spaces she left behind, the unfinished tasks of daily life, must now all be faced and completed by me. I have become the final destination for every responsibility.

In the past, many things either (1) naturally fell to my wife to handle, (2) required discussion with her before a decision was made, or (3) were reported back to her afterward. Now, every one of those matters lands on my own desk, and I alone make the decisions.

From a practical standpoint, both of my sons are adults and have their own paths to follow. I am retired. As long as my health and finances remain manageable, and I do not pressure or frighten myself unnecessarily, there is very little that I cannot handle.

Before we were married, my wife had already been working at a bank, and from then until the day she passed away, she managed all of our finances. After her death, I allowed myself to work at a pace that my emotional, mental, and physical strength could sustain. Each day I spent a little time organizing documents, updating records, and contacting government departments and financial institutions. Gradually, I learned how everything fit together. In the end, I dealt with everything according to the actual circumstances, and the process proved easier than I had imagined.

Since the day we met, she had always been the one who decided how we organized our daily lives. After she was gone, I chose to leave things largely unchanged. I kept the same daily routine, avoided creating unnecessary complications, and went out less often. Since university, my younger son has cooked for himself because of his commitment to fitness, which has spared me a great deal of work. I also make soup much less frequently now. Life has settled into a steady, peaceful rhythm. Apart from Lun, there have been few ups and downs.

Life has not become joyless. It is simply that I no longer have someone with whom to share and resonate. The little things—personal encounters, gossip, breaking news, amusing stories, unexpected experiences, new discoveries, and moments of insight—no longer seem to need recording because there is no longer someone waiting to hear them.

Yet this sense of loss is also, in another way, the gift I was privileged to enjoy for forty-seven years. At the same time, I also miss the gentle reminders she used to give me.

I have come to accept one reality: meeting, falling in love, and building a life together are all matters of fate. Along life's journey, one partner almost always leaves the train before the other. When that happens is beyond our control. What we can do is cherish each other while we are together, and treasure the memories afterward.

At last, this bonsai of mine has returned to growing as a single tree.