Come back before the door closes for good

Not long ago, I wrote about what a “good death” looks like: affairs settled, loved ones nearby, no harsh words left unsaid. But reality doesn’t always offer such closure. Lately, I’ve found myself attending funerals that feel incomplete. Not because the ceremony was lacking—but because someone important never showed up. A son. A daughter. A sibling. Absent not due to distance, but decision. When grief collides with silence, you start to notice what no one wants to say: estrangement has become a quiet epidemic.

Scroll through any holiday photo album and you’ll see it—smiling faces, matching colors, a family moment frozen in time. But the stories outside the frame are harder to capture. The sibling who hasn’t come home in years. The father everyone avoids talking about. The lingering grudge that surfaces in awkward glances and avoided conversations.

Estrangement doesn’t always start with drama. Sometimes, it begins with a missed call, a harsh comment, or a fight that no one had the courage to revisit. But left alone long enough, these fractures deepen. And when a parent is on their deathbed, it's not justice they're seeking. It's peace.

Between 2018 and 2022, over 2,000 elderly individuals were abandoned in Malaysian hospitals. Last year, Hospital Kuala Lumpur recorded a 50% surge in such cases. Many were left behind after treatment, with no one coming to take them home. They weren't forgotten strangers. They were mothers, fathers, grandparents—with living children who chose not to return.

We call it “abandonment,” but what it often reveals is an unresolved family history. A relationship that was never repaired. A wound that never fully closed. In cities across Asia, these numbers keep growing. But what’s missing in policy briefs and welfare reports is the emotional undercurrent: how love slips into silence, and silence hardens into distance.

During a documentary shoot, I spent weeks speaking to elderly men and women living on the streets near Pasar Seni. Most had stories that began the same way: a family they once raised, a home they once shared, and a falling out that became permanent. Some had fled abuse. Others were pushed out with words too cruel to repeat. A few simply drifted away—calls unanswered, visits discouraged, affection replaced by obligation.

What haunted me wasn’t just their physical condition. It was the way their faces lit up when asked about their children—followed by the quiet pause.

“They don’t talk to me anymore.”

“They said I was too much trouble.”

“They told me to just go.”

That kind of heartbreak doesn’t show up in spreadsheets. But it lives in every unreturned message, every empty seat at a hospital bedside.

When we think of elder abuse, we picture financial exploitation or physical harm. But the most common—and often the most damaging—form is emotional. It’s the constant belittling. The daily coldness. The dismissive tone that tells an older person they’re unwanted in their own home.

One woman told me her son muttered “better if you just died” every time she forgot something. Another said her daughter didn’t allow her to eat at the same table. This isn’t about failing to meet cultural expectations of filial piety. This is cruelty. It’s a fundamental violation of what it means to care for one another. And it’s happening more often than we admit.

Many older adults know better than to rely on hope. They’ve seen how fragile family bonds can be when tested by money, illness, or resentment. So they prepare.

They stay physically active well into their 70s and 80s. They hold onto the title deed. They manage their finances meticulously, determined not to be seen as a burden. They build friendship circles, invest in community, and avoid giving up their autonomy too early. It’s not paranoia. It’s protection. Because they’ve learned that even the warmest family photos can fade when resentment enters the room.

What keeps families apart for decades? Sometimes, it’s trauma that never found language. Other times, it’s a tangled mix of pride, hurt, and miscommunication. A child who felt abandoned now avoids their aging parent. A parent who never apologized doesn’t know how to begin. So both sides wait—for the other to make the first move.

But here’s what no one tells you: most of the time, that move never comes. The distance solidifies. The silence becomes normal. And by the time one party is ready to reconnect, the other may no longer be alive. Regret is a cruel teacher.

We often think legacy means wealth, property, heirlooms. But the most lasting thing parents pass on is emotional memory. Children remember how they were made to feel. Whether they were seen. Whether they were protected. Whether they were loved without condition.

And those memories shape how they respond when their parents begin to age. If their childhood was marked by fear or shame, coming back doesn’t feel like closure. It feels like reopening a wound. That’s why cycles repeat. Estrangement begets estrangement. And without reflection, love quietly unravels across generations.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened. It means deciding that resentment doesn’t get to write the final chapter. It’s not about forgetting. It’s about choosing what matters more: justice, or relationship. This doesn’t mean reconciliation is always possible. But sometimes, even small gestures—a call, a card, a holiday visit—can shift the energy. There’s no perfect timing for healing. But there is such a thing as too late.

In Japan, kodokushi refers to elderly people who die alone, their deaths going unnoticed for days or weeks. It’s a cultural phenomenon that’s increasingly common across East Asia. And it’s not just happening to the poor or isolated. It happens to those with children, homes, even careers—whose final years became invisibly solitary. Singapore is building housing tailored to aging singles. In the Philippines, the diaspora strain means many elderly live apart from their families, with care falling to neighbors or strangers. These are symptoms of the same fracture: love without maintenance. Family without connection.

We tend to believe that blood should override everything—that family is an unbreakable bond. But love is not an auto-renewing contract. It needs upkeep. It needs apologies, not assumptions. It needs conversation, not choreography. Filial piety may be a value. But it doesn’t survive on tradition alone. It requires emotional labor, mutual grace, and sometimes, letting go of the need to be right. Because family doesn’t survive on rituals. It survives on repair.

This isn’t a call for guilt. It’s a reminder that we still have time to do things differently. To text a sibling we haven’t spoken to in years. To visit the aunt who raised us, even if she was hard on us once. To remind our parents—flawed as they may be—that we see them trying. Because one day, that opportunity may no longer exist. And no inheritance, no tradition, no ceremony will make up for what was never said.

Maybe this isn’t the year you fix everything. But maybe it’s the year you say one thing you’ve held back. Maybe it’s the year you take the first step—before time decides for you. We’re not promised perfect outcomes. Some people won’t meet us halfway. Some apologies will go unanswered. But trying isn’t about controlling the result. It’s about softening what’s hardened. It’s about choosing not to carry the weight into another year, another decade.

Even a message that says, “I hope you’re well,” can open a window. Even a visit with no expectation can change the temperature in a room. What matters is intention. What matters is timing. What matters is the small act of turning toward—not away. Because there comes a day when the silence can no longer be broken. When the story ends—not with peace, but with a pause. And by then, the only person left to make peace with… is you.