That day, Dad’s car rolled over my shoe.
***
It was mid-September, just the school holidays. I went home to see my parents, and by chance, my younger brother from Penang and older brother from Johor were also back. The next morning, Dad—usually frugal and reserved—suddenly had the urge to bring us to a hawker stall near the stadium for a bowl of pork noodles he’d just discovered.
To be fair, the stall had been around for over a decade. But Mum had always been loyal to a particular kopitiam, never daring to explore others. With Ipoh’s food prices creeping up to KL levels, she’d recently taken to “YouTube” to hunt for affordable and tasty breakfast spots.
Anyway, that morning, we all woke up early. Dad looked cheerful. He asked my older brother to be the front-seat prince, while Mum, my younger brother, and I squeezed into the back of the Myvi. Off we went—just a fifteen-minute drive to the stadium for noodles. Along the way, Mum couldn’t stop praising the stall:
“You know, the ingredients he gives—really generous!”
“If I hadn’t seen that YouTube video, we’d never have known about it!”
Honestly, I was a little nervous.
Because that stadium also had our pork noodle stall. The one we’d been going to for over ten years. Could a YouTube video really wash away a decade of loyalty?
“Are you sure?” my brother asked, doubtful.
“Yes!” Mum insisted.
I was still nervous.
We arrived. As always, before even finding a parking spot, Mum and Dad ordered us to jump out and “chop” a table. To outsiders, we probably looked like some strange tactical unit leaping from a car with laser focus on a single mission.
Open door. Step out. Close door.
Bang! My older brother shut the front door.
Bang! My younger brother shut the left rear door.
I hadn’t closed the right rear door yet—when Dad started driving.
And the rear wheel slowly rolled over my left foot.
Maybe it was my frantic tapping, or Mum’s panicked “Eh! Eh!”—thankfully, Dad braked in time.
“What are you doing! He hasn’t gotten out yet!”
“I didn’t know!”
“You have to check! The door wasn’t even closed—you didn’t notice?”
“I said I didn’t know!”
A flurry of noise, but no shouting.
I just quietly checked my foot.
Thankfully, the shoe had loosened. The wheel had only grazed the soft fabric near my pinky toe. Not a scratch on my skin. Good heavens—what a close call.
And to keep the mood light for our rare family breakfast, we moved on. From iced coffee to steaming noodles, the conversation flowed as if nothing had happened.
Did it, though?
I don’t think Dad was at fault. Truly.
The fault lay with us three brothers.
Except for Chinese New Year, Winter Solstice, or Mid-Autumn, we usually return home alone or in pairs. That tiny car rarely carries all five of us. Dad’s ears are used to hearing just two doors shut. He’s used to scanning for parking after that.
Used to it.
We’ve made our aging parents see the full family reunion as a rare spectacle. We’ve made them used to the idea that joy in numbers is a luxury.
Is that true?
Is it really?
Now it’s December. I’ve spent two weeks of holidays with them. My younger brother came back for Winter Solstice. We even took the chance to bring Mum and Dad on a train trip to Taiping. But my older brother couldn’t make it—year-end work kept him away. Looks like the three of us will only meet again during Chinese New Year.
My shoe didn’t get run over again this year.
Next year, I hope Mum and Dad will hear three doors close.
You—remember to come home.