> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.story.sg/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # His Last Meal - URL: https://www.story.sg/his-last-meal/ - Published: 2026-11-10T04:11:01.000Z - Updated: 2026-11-10T07:30:04.000Z - Author: sam choo At about 9.30 on the morning of 18 July 2025, I bought my 97-year-old father a bowl of black sesame paste. Six hours later, he was dead. My father lived in a three-room HDB flat along Bendemeer Road in Singapore. Since my mother passed away in August 2024, he had been living there with his helper. He was lonely without her. His health had deteriorated, and he had lost much of his appetite. Finding something he enjoyed eating was becoming increasingly difficult. That morning, his helper called my wife to say that he was unwell and groaning in pain. We bought a bowl of black sesame paste, one of his favourite desserts, from Mei Heong Yuen Dessert at EastPoint Mall before taking a taxi to his home. When we arrived, he was conscious but clearly suffering. His helper fed him a few spoonfuls of the dessert. That was all he could manage. We wheeled him to a nearby general practitioner clinic for a check-up before bringing him home to rest. He was breathing heavily, and his face showed how much pain he was in. I felt helpless watching him suffer. My father had told his helper on several occasions that he could see my mother's spirit sitting in her favourite seat at the dining table, beckoning him to join her on the other side. He mentioned it again that day, speaking in Mandarin. His helper translated his words into English for my wife. Before we left that afternoon, my wife told him, "Tomorrow I will come again." "Tomorrow you come again?" he repeated. "Yes," she assured him. My father and I had a rather strange relationship. We seldom talked, partly out of habit. Even when we were together, I often did not know what to say to him. That afternoon was no different. Before leaving his room, I gently touched his face. He was conscious and looking at me. I said nothing. I did not know that would be the last time I would ever touch him while he was alive. A few hours later, his helper called to say that my father was no longer breathing. My wife and I rushed back, arriving at about 4 pm. We called an ambulance, and the paramedics tried to revive him. But he was already gone. I felt sad, but also relieved that his suffering had ended. I thought about his visions of my mother. Perhaps she really was waiting for him. The thought comforts me, knowing how much he had missed her. We had promised to return the next day. There was no next day. Today, whenever I see a bowl of black sesame paste, I remember that morning. Most of all, I remember touching my father's face before leaving. I wish I had spoken to him more often. Perhaps I could have visited him more. There are things I would have liked to say, but the opportunity is gone. We never know when an ordinary visit will become our final goodbye. If your parents are still alive, visit them while you can. Bring them their favourite food. Spend time with them. One day, those small acts of love may become your most precious memories. For me, it will always be a bowl of black sesame paste. --- *Told and written by Sam Choo* *Story tags: Fatherhood, Grief and Loss, Family Memories*