It’s funny how the roles reverse between child and parent as the years jostle along but that’s kind of how they are now between me and mine. Coming from a small village in Calcutta (now Kolkata), India, my mother immigrated to Great Britain in the 1970s in search of a better life. Till then, she had the back-breaking job of selling Hakka-Chinese food along Calcutta’s streets, a position she’d held since the age of six to support her family. Eventually came a golden ticket to relocate, and the SGD12 she’d saved up would kick start a new life. That, in the UK though, was spare change. Mummy would have to hustle much harder.

By the time I was born, my mum was juggling two gruelling jobs. During the day, she worked in a Chinese restaurant and come night she worked in a hospital. She’d sleep on the shop floor before it opened, and somehow still managed to meal prep for two kids before the night shift. To help, I became the model teenager any Asian immigrant could hope for: I got straight As at school, and spent all my spare time helping out at the restaurant—that’s a lot of prawn crackers packaged. We knew nothing of family recreation and I often wondered how my white friends had time to go to theme parks or the beach with their parents.

When I was at university, Mum and I experienced luxury for the first time. We had relatives in town and they booked a table at China Tang, a restaurant in Park Lane’s most famous hotel called The Dorchester. I remember that day so clearly: Mum pulled the labels off her most expensive (high street brand) clothes, we posed for photos in the lobby for what felt like forever and every bite of dim sum was savoured with a squeal. When the bill came our hearts jumped but we talked about that incredible experience for years to come and I vowed one day to take her back to that hotel myself.

My 20s were a blur. You know that time when you’re chasing promotions, are all consumed by first love and going to parties every night because your liver can perform magic tricks? I didn’t visit often while I found my way in the world as an adult. As my 30s entered I was living abroad and Mum visited me in a handful of cities. It was in Tokyo, though, that I noticed she couldn’t quite keep up. I’d walk ahead while she limped behind and climbing the stairs became a challenge. She was in her 70s, and I’d failed to really acknowledge her fragility, mostly because I was in denial. We easily label our parents old, but rarely do we see them as weak. Certainly not my busy-body single mother who can hold down multiple jobs, raise children, and eventually amass a small fortune in real estate. A health scare ensued and I realised I needed to dedicate much more quality time with my mum.

Now, I’d never before considered her to be a travel companion. We have very different tastes. I like outdoor adventure, and she prefers shopping malls; I like experimenting with local food, and she complains when the meals are not Asian, because "if there’s no rice, she’ll be hungry"; and of course, there’s the nagging, which is incessant, to say the least. Still, once a year, I plan an international adventure for us, and admittedly it’s always more fun than I anticipated. We recently journeyed to South Korea, but it’s the cruises we enjoy most because both of us can have our needs met. On a Virgin Voyage around Greece, I could have vegan while she did Korean barbecue, and we checked off multiple islands without the stress of public transit. This summer we’re sailing on a Norwegian Cruise Line to Iceland. It’s the best way for her to see the fjords and the Northern Lights from the comfort of her own balcony.

We’re dining quite fancy once a month too, and it’s about damn time. I see it as a small contribution to making up for a complete absence of indulgence in the first 70+ years of her life. This is someone who scoffed plates down between shifts, and never once took a self-care day. Now, I want her to slow down and enjoy life’s bounty—and of course, I’ll settle the bill. She can’t comprehend the marked-up price of rice in a nice restaurant, despite that being her main stipulation for dining out.

The average person in the world lives till they’re 73 years old (83 in Singapore), so it’s easy to do the math to figure out how many more Lunar celebrations or annual vacations you’ll possibly have with your parents. For most millennials, it isn’t that many at all. My mum turns 80 in 2024, and I know exactly how to mark the special occasion. We’re going to have dim sum at China Tang and she’s going to stay overnight in The Dorchester for the first time. It’s quite a splurge but I’ve been saving. Every year with her is precious and honestly, I wish I’d started doing this much earlier.