In The Longing, memory is not just something you inherit — it’s something you survive.
Spanning three generations of women bound by blood, sacrifice, and silence, this quietly devastating novel traces how familial duty and hidden desires shape a legacy across time. In this excerpt, we’re transported to 1957, where seventeen-year-old Ah Lam’s future is being quietly negotiated—her heart caught between a factory worker’s promise and her family’s pressing need. What begins as a story of matchmakers and marriage quickly unfurls into something deeper: the uneasy tug-of-war between personal longing and generational expectation.
The Longing is a story about three generations of women who find what they need when intergenerational trauma and family memories haunt their lives and ties to others.
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In 1957, just when Ah Lam turns seventeen, Ah Wong decides it is high time for her to get married. The family’s need for financial profit and reduced costs is growing, as with nine children the struggle is arduous. Although their small shop does nicely—and the girls help further by taking sewing and embroidering orders, while the boys taking turns running the tobacco delivery from one neighbourhood to another—the children have growing appetites, and soon they will need to send the boys to the Dutch school, which will cost twice as much as the Chinese-language school.
Ah Wong has kept silent about Ah Lam’s secret relationship with the factory worker, for it seemed harmless enough. Everyone who had mentioned it to him, hoping to be the first, said ‘How sweet,’ and ‘Don’t worry, it won’t last.’
‘The boy works hard and could do well for himself,’ Ah Bao once said.
But after learning that Tan Kwee has almost no family inheritance, Ah Wong decides Ah Lam should set her sights higher. There are costs for food, housing, children, and festivities to anticipate. And there’s unpredictable rising costs in the market, always coming out to hit everyone without any warnings. Once a week, Ah Wong delivers rice to a wealthy Chinese family who runs a successful packaging company for the Dutch—rice, flour, and sugar.
Since Ah Wong has always made his deliveries on time, the owner, Cheng Mui Gek, a widowed businesswoman who can smell money from a mile away, grows fond of him, and often talks to him about their respective children. Her youngest son, Cheng Lei, has just turned twenty-two and spends his days playing Chopin, Brahms, and Beethoven on the piano or arranging roses, gerberas, and chrysanthemums in a vase.
‘He thinks that’s what he wants to do all his life and nothing else,’ Cheng Mui says, ‘but I know better. That boy of mine needs a wife.’
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