Speaking the Truth Across Family Faultlines

For weeks I wrestled with a simple but not-so-simple question: Should I tell my siblings that my new book, A Listening Grandmother, has been published?

Part of me feared how they might react. Would they take offence at what I had written, or feel exposed in ways I hadn’t intended? Another part of me knew that silence would not be truthful. I could hear the whisper in my heart: Speak clearly, gently, and without urgency.

So I did.

I sent a message to my sisters, letting them know that the seed of the book had been born in the tender aftermath of our reunion earlier this year — a week full of laughter, rawness, unanswered questions, and truths spoken aloud. I told them they were part of its origin story.

The WhatsApp thread that followed took on its own life. We spoke about our hometown, Muar — how it has changed, the people we remember, and the figures who have become well known. Articles and memories were shared, thanks were given, questions were asked. One sister acknowledged the book directly. Another asked where it could be found and why I hadn’t used my photo for the cover. One stayed silent.

I also shared something joyful: that I had recently bought an allotment with a little house. Again — silence. These silences can carry weight. And yet, I realised, they are part of the fabric of family, too. Not everything we share will be met with a response.

Later that evening, in a soul integration practice, an old childhood memory rose up: I was five years old, clutching a book I had stolen and lying to my mother that I had found it. She handed me instead a very old book that had belonged to my aunt. Many of the canings I received as a child were linked to lies or “white lies.” It struck me that some fragment of that inner child had stayed with me — afraid to tell the truth, tempted to protect herself with silence or half-truths.

Perhaps it was no coincidence that this memory surfaced just as I had dared to speak my truth to my sisters.

This time, I did not lie, hide, or stay silent. I spoke. Clearly, simply, and without urgency.

The experience reminded me that telling the truth in families is never simple. Responses may come in the form of words, questions, silence, or even avoidance. But each time I dare to cross those faultlines with love, I feel another piece of my wholeness return.

I don’t know if there will be a siblings’ reunion next year. I planted the seed; I will not press for it. Instead, I will plan my own path — visits to Malaysia, Singapore, Hanoi. Like the allotment I’ve begun to tend, these are places I can cultivate in my own time and way.