Guests, Germs and Gramps
[Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual beings, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
When hygiene meets heritage, sparks fly in a full house. Cora is determined to raise her children with modern sensibilities — serving chopsticks, toilet lids down, no blowing on hot food. But her convictions are put to the test when both sets of grandparents come visiting. As old habits clash with new beliefs, Cora finds herself caught between upholding cleanliness and preserving harmony. And when a multi-generational autumn vacation abroad is planned, will Cora trade her boundaries for bonding? It’s only April. She still has time to decide.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Miriam whisper something into her father’s ear while tugging his sleeve. He was at the dining table with his Sunday coffee — always savouring it like he’s at some ambient Starbucks café. I couldn’t hear her or catch his words, but the exaggerated look of exasperation on his face said everything. I know Marcel well enough to read that expression. Very likely his usual “Really?” response.
I stepped out of the pantry. “What’s it, honey?”
“Mum, I told Dad that Yeh-Yeh flushed the toilet without putting the lid down, and Dad ignored me.”
I winced — not at my father-in-law’s “offence,” but at our daughter’s bluntness.
“I heard the flush behind the door,” she explained, eyes flicking toward the bathroom. “It was loud. I can tell — the lid’s up. You always say we must close it first, so germs don’t fly out.”
Yes, I do. Lately, drilling hygiene into my eight-year-old has become a personal mission. Some lessons she absorbs without protest. Others, she questions relentlessly.
Just then, a second flush echoed. The toilet door opened. My father-in-law emerged, perfectly unbothered, heading to the living room for his papers. Maybe he’d heard her, maybe not. Even if he had, he’d have dismissed it. He’s firm in his ways — unyielding, sometimes.
I pulled Miriam aside with a glance she knew well.
“Yes, I taught you the proper way to flush,” I said, keeping my voice low. “But what about respect? Remember what I told you about elders?”
She blinked at me, waiting for the next moral to be spelled out.
“That’s Yeh-Yeh. He’s Dad’s father. That makes him your elder, like Nai-Nai. And they’re our guests. They’re staying for a week, maybe two.”
Miriam gave me a sheepish smile. I think it registered — at least a little.
My in-laws had flown in from Sabah to celebrate Albin’s fourth birthday. A small family affair. The last time they stayed over, Miriam had just started weaning off diapers — like Albin now. But these days, she has opinions.
So does my mother-in-law, though she rarely interjects.
“Did I hear something about toilet flushing? You guys don’t know how to flush,” she declared as she entered the room. “I spent last evening scrubbing that stubborn brown mark on the underside of the toilet cover, with Clorox. Scrub, wash, scrub again — still there. That disgusting mark tells me you all have been flushing with the cover down. Marcel, it’s time you change the seat cover.”
“Okay, Ma. I’ll get it changed tomorrow,” Marcel said without looking up.
Miriam raised her hand like she was moderating a debate. “So, Nai-Nai, should we flush with the lid up or down? Mum says the germs will fly if we don’t cover.”
So much for my household commandments.
Nai-Nai chuckled. “Germs? You should see our old house in Kudat. No one lives there now, but before your Dad was born, we had the bucket system. We lived with germs.”
Miriam looked confused.
“The flush toilet came later,” Nai-Nai said. “What’s left of the bucket toilet now is just a shed, far from the house.”
Marcel grimaced. Clearly, he wished his mother hadn’t brought that up. For me, it was an unexpected peek into his past. He’d mentioned kampung life in passing, but never in such earthy detail.
Miriam’s question made us all laugh.
“Is it the same kind of plastic bucket and spade that I bring to the beach?” She saved that embarrassing moment.
That night, when I asked Marcel more about it at bedtime, he groaned.
“Don’t get me started. We’ll never sleep. Good night.”
And with that, he turned over and promptly fell asleep.
Monday came. Miriam and I were on a two-week school break. I welcomed the peace — no pestering questions from teenagers in my biology classes. Miriam, on the other hand, was already missing the hive of school activities. Marcel had taken a few days off too.
My parents dropped by from just a few streets away. The grandmothers busied themselves with our birthday boy, and the grandfathers were off in a corner, discussing politics like they held cabinet positions.
It was a full house — the good kind. Our double-storey corner lot in Kajang was modestly huge, and the space felt generous. Three bedrooms and a small family area upstairs, and two guest rooms, living room, dining, pantry, and kitchen on the lower ground. And ten feet of land by the side for us to do some gardening.
Marcel had once suggested a live-in maid. I declined. I value our privacy too much. But that day, I wondered if I’d been hasty back then. A maid could have helped with the kids.
I’d stepped away to answer a long-winded call from an overly enthusiastic parent asking about homework I’d already posted for my Form Four students. I’d expected the students to be more independent, to contact me via the Whatsapp group if they had questions. But no — some garrulous parents are determined to supervise every worksheet.
When I returned to the dining area, I froze.
My mother was feeding Albin with a spoon, gently blowing over the hot broth.
I rushed over, and in a hushed agitated voice called her out. “Mum! How many times have I said this — it’s unhygienic! Don’t blow on his food. I left it to cool for a reason.”
She didn’t flinch. Nor match my low volume with her response. “You grew up breathing in a lot of my unhealthy air. And look how you turned out.” She gave me a tired smile.
Had it been a maid, I’d expect her to follow my routines by now.
Then, with a theatrical sigh, she added, “But yes, yes — you’re right. That toxic breath of mine made you into such a creature today.”
I stood there, caught between exasperation and disbelief.
“And yet somehow your brother is fine,” she went on. “Rudy turned out okay. Paediatrician, isn’t he?”
My mother-in-law, sitting next to her, cackled. “Times have changed,” she said. “My three boys took in plenty of my saliva, too. And they’re fine, too. Look at Marcel.”
I was not amused. Not one bit.
I took over Albin’s feeding.
Had it been my mother-in-law who did it, maybe I’d have used a gentler tone. Most daughters-in-law do. There’s a reserve that isn’t there with our own mothers. I’m no exception. Marcel’s parents rarely stay over, and our trips to Sabah are short.
But mothers and daughters — they share more than just DNA.
We made peace later, over lunch at a nearby restaurant. By the time we returned, there was a birthday cake, and Albin was all smiles, demanding we relight the candles just so he could blow them out again.
“Don’t spray saliva all over the cake, Albin,” my father joked, clearly ribbing me about the broth.
By evening, calm had returned. The three of us women were swapping recipes like old friends.
I didn’t expect another storm over dinner.
We had laid out a vibrant spread — pork, chicken, fish, soup, vegetables. A small celebration made richer by the labour of three kitchens converging.
The familiar clink of cutlery was a comforting soundtrack. Albin had eaten earlier and was now babbling in his playpen.
“Could someone let me have some roast pork please?” Marcel asked.
“Sure,” my father-in-law replied, reaching over with his chopsticks.
“Guys, remember to use the serving chopsticks, please?” I said, firm but calm.
A beat of silence.
My father looked puzzled, then snickered. “Serving chopsticks at home? Cora, you’re more conscientious than those health inspectors.”
My mother chimed in, “So troublesome. We’re family. What’s there to be so fussy about?” My mother-in-law nodded.
I paused, re-evaluating. When it’s just my parents over, I provide the communal utensils — but never insist on their use. Yet here I was, laying down the law in front of Marcel’s parents.
Miriam, perched between her father and me, looked around. “Mum, why can’t Yeh-Yeh use his own chopsticks?”
I tightened my jaw. “Because we’re promoting what it means to be hygienic. Using serving chopsticks stops germs from spreading.”
“Germs?” Miriam’s eyes widened slightly as she mimicked her grandma’s expression earlier that day. “But Yeh-Yeh shared his ice cream with me yesterday. And Mei Ling and I sometimes drink with the same straw.”
I nearly choked. Thank goodness I hadn’t witnessed the ice cream moment. And I didn’t want to imagine two young girls sharing a drink in the school canteen.
“Okay, Miriam,” I sighed. “But serving spoons and chopsticks is still a good habit to observe. We’ll try our best, but it’s okay if not everyone agrees.”
I reached for the serving spoon, trying to lead by example. I couldn’t expect Marcel to enforce what he himself wasn’t particular about.
Just when I thought we’d moved past it, my father spoke again, this time with theatrical gravitas.
“Healthy, healthy,” he said, switching to the communal chopsticks with a roll of his eyes he probably thought I didn’t notice. My father-in-law winked at him.
Then he leaned back in his chair and launched into what I thought would be the evening’s final monologue.
“Do you all remember when and how this practice of communal cutlery started?”
Here we go. I braced myself for a repeat of his story I have heard umpteen times before.
It was about the 2003 SARS epidemic in Hong Kong, and how a communal pair of chopsticks, or an additional serving spoon made their way to the dining table. It was a practice recommended by the health authorities. And since then, it caught on, beyond that special administrative region, and even after the epidemic ended.
This time, my mother added her two cents worth.
“The practice of a serving spoon or fork was adopted by our Malay friends a long time ago. Long before SARS. They eat with their hands. And it would be uncultured and impolite for anyone to dip their bare hand into a shared dish.”
Mother made no mention of hygiene. Simply an issue of being cultured and polite. Miriam should learn this.
I ignored the chat. I continued using the communal spoon that evening. I wish Marcel had done the same. Somehow, the food didn’t taste as appetizing as I had wished when we were preparing it.
Back in our bedroom that evening, I raised the broth incident again.
“You seemed okay with that, Marcel. I am not.”
“It’s just a trivial matter. Let’s not get upset,” Marcel said.
“Weren’t you upset your father did not put the lid down before flushing the toilet?”
“Not at all.”
“I am not you.”
“You are not. But think about it, Cora. Miriam may not remember, but perhaps you do. When she was four, and we left her with your mother while we worked, how do you think she fed Miriam?”
“That’s history. And when I didn’t see, I don’t care. Good night.”
I turned my back and tried to fall asleep.
The next morning, I was in the kitchen helping Miriam slice bananas into her cereal when Marcel’s father appeared, dressed for travel.
“We are flying home this afternoon,” he said with the calm efficiency of someone reading out a train schedule.
I paused, the banana knife in mid-air. “Flying home? All of a sudden.”
“Yes. I bet Marcel hadn’t the chance to tell you yet,” he said, almost with surprise, as if he were informing the last person on earth.
“No, he hasn’t.” He took that as an invitation to elaborate.
“Neighbour called from Sabah late last night. Found our front door left ajar. Apparently, there was a break-in the day before. He made a report on our behalf, police came, but still — we’d better go back and sort it out.”
I nodded slowly, my thoughts already scrambling for what this meant: meals, airport drop-offs, leftover birthday cake. My relief arrived a few seconds later — quiet, internal, unmistakable. So, the sudden departure was not germs related.
“Oh no,” I managed to say, feigning just enough sympathy. “I hope nothing too valuable was taken.”
He waved the concern away. “The house is mostly of inexpensive stuff. Nothing we can’t replace, I suppose. But I keep a few memorable things in the study. Some souvenirs from my retirement.”
Marcel appeared behind me just then, cradling his own coffee like he had no hand in withholding news. Typical.
“You knew?” I whispered.
“Dad told me this morning. I mean to tell you.” He whispered back.
“Lovely,” I said, the banana slices now paper-thin. “So, I’m the last to know.”
Marcel gave me a sheepish smile and ducked out of the kitchen with his coffee intact.
I thought about my own parents’ possible reaction to this sudden departure. It turns out, I didn’t need to worry. My father-in-law, ever the diplomat, had already called Dad earlier in the morning.
“In fact,” he said cheerfully as he tucked a newspaper under his arm, “just last night, your dad and I talked about going on a holiday together. Maybe when autumn hits China this year.”
I blinked. “You mean all four of you?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, like it had been a well-known plan all along. “No date yet. Just an idea. But you and Marcel, and the kids, are welcome to join. And if you guys do join, we’ll schedule it to match the school break in September.”
I forced a polite smile. “We’ll think about it.”
Marcel’s mother emerged next, already halfway packed. Miriam followed close behind, carrying a small bag of snacks she had helped prepare for the flight. Her Nai-Nai could have told her the reason for cutting short their stay.
“Will Nai-Nai and Yeh-Yeh come again soon?” she asked.
“Definitely,” I said, gently adjusting her ponytail. “They’re just going home early, not vanishing.”
The morning passed in a blur of zipped luggage and mild advice before goodbyes. I noticed my mother-in-law wiped the toilet seat one last time before leaving. Whether that was a courtesy or a final gesture of protest, I couldn’t tell. Maybe Marcel may procrastinate changing the seat cover now.
At the airport, there were hugs, waves, and the usual reminders about calling when they’d landed. Then it was over.
The house felt bigger without them. Quieter. I made tea and sat in the living room while Albin napped, and Miriam read beside me; legs tangled on the sofa. Marcel was upstairs sending work emails.
I stirred my tea slowly.
A holiday with all four grandparents. The image floated before me, vivid and chaotic: we would likely book an apartment with shared toilets, meals without serving chopsticks, people blowing on soup, and too many opinions on what was or wasn’t “cultured and polite.”
And yet… the children would enjoy it. Miriam would be thrilled. Albin would have four adults doting on him. It wouldn’t be forever. A week, ten days, tops. Maybe less.
Still. Do I want to?
I looked at the half-eaten slice of birthday cake in the fridge and thought about shared spaces, travel logistics, Marcel’s laidback parenting, and my own rigid standards.
It was only April. Plenty of time to decide.
And not just my decision to make.
Marcel would have a say too.
I took a sip of my tea. It had cooled. Just the way I liked it.
* * * * *
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