Birthdays, especially as we grow older, become less about the celebration and more about reflection—of where we’ve been, what we’ve endured, and who we’ve become. As I turned 46 this year, I found myself in a place I didn’t quite expect. Emotionally tired, guarded, and not entirely enthusiastic about celebrating. It’s difficult to feign joy when your mental well-being has long gone unnoticed. So, I kept telling myself there was no point.
And yet, sometimes the heart chooses kindness even when it aches.
That morning, we kept things simple. Ed, the kids, Mum, and I gathered to cut the birthday cake. It wasn’t extravagant or loud—it was just us, and that was enough. Knowing that the afternoon would be swept away with plans Lani and I had made, it felt right to share that quiet moment together. I was glad we did. These small rituals, no matter how understated, still carry weight. They ground us in family, in history, in presence.
Afterwards, the five of us headed out for lunch at Lazada One. We chose GoPizza, a Korean pizza place I’d been wanting to try again. The food didn’t disappoint—rich, flavorful, comforting. But what stood out the most was the server. She ran the floor alone, managing everything with a big, genuine smile. It was like watching grace in action. She reminded me how far a joyful spirit can carry you. She had every reason to be frazzled, but instead she chose gratitude, and it showed. That moment touched something in me—a reminder that no matter what we carry inside, we can choose joy, even in the smallest acts.
But the real highlight of the day—the part that made this birthday unforgettable—was the “date” I had with my daughter, Lani.
After lunch, we went home to get ready. Lani did my makeup, and we both got dressed up in character: me as Christine, her as the Phantom. There was something whimsical and healing about it. I haven’t felt that sense of playfulness in a long time. And to do it with my daughter, who I once feared had grown distant from me, made it all the more special. We were two women, mother and daughter, dressing up not just for a show—but for each other.
Our first stop was the ArtScience Museum at Marina Bay Sands. We visited the Iris Van Herpen exhibition—futuristic, ethereal, and completely mesmerizing. It was the perfect warm-up to a night steeped in art and creativity. From there, we headed to TWG for tea. It was my first time there, and honestly, I was stunned at how expensive everything was. But Lani insisted. She told me she wanted to spoil me. She’s working now, and this was her gift—a little luxury she wanted to share. I sipped my tea, ate my scones, and marveled not at the price, but at the gesture. She was proud to do this for me, and I was deeply touched that she cared enough to make me feel cherished.
And then… it was time.
We made our way to the Sands Theatre for The Phantom of the Opera. Thirty years. That’s how long I had waited to see this production. The story, the music, the spectacle—it had always enchanted me. To say I was excited would be an understatement. We took our photos, stopped by the merchandise booth (Lani insisted I pick something out—I chose a tote bag), and then we walked in.
Three rows from the front. I couldn’t believe it.
As we sat down and took in the grandeur of the stage, something shifted in me. I reached for Lani’s hand, and we held on tight as the opening chords filled the theatre. And then… the chandelier. It rose above us in all its glory, casting golden light over the audience like a dream being brought to life. I felt my breath catch.
The show was everything I hoped for and more. The costumes, the haunting music, the performances—it was truly magical. Sitting beside my daughter, both of us enraptured, was a memory etched forever in my heart. There were moments when I felt tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Not just because I was finally seeing Phantom, but because of who I was sharing it with. The joy, the awe, the connection—we weren’t just watching a show. We were sharing a sacred experience.
I had once feared that Lani saw me as disappointment. I worried that my mistakes, my struggles, had clouded her love for me. But in that theatre, I saw her heart—and I felt mine begin to heal. She didn’t just treat me to the show. She held space for me. She reminded me, without saying a word, that love remains. That bonds don’t break so easily. That daughters grow up and learn to see for themselves.
After the show, we made our way to Le Noir bar. We ordered their signature Phantom of the Opera cocktail and sat there, talking and laughing like old friends. The conversation took unexpected turns. We shared truths, confessions, memories, pain. She told me things I hadn’t known she’d carried, and I did the same. There was a beautiful vulnerability between us, and for the first time in a long time, I felt seen by her—not as a mother who failed in some ways, but as a woman who tried, who loved deeply, and who was still standing.
We stayed at the bar until well past midnight, finally making our way home around 1:30 in the morning. We were tired, but happy. We made a promise—to do something like this again, once a month. Just us. A tradition of connection, healing, and joy.
This birthday was unlike any I’ve had in recent years. It started with family—messy, imperfect, but present. It continued with my daughter—grown, strong, and surprisingly tender. And it ended with a dream fulfilled—The Phantom of the Opera, seen through the eyes of someone who had waited half a lifetime.
I’ll never forget the way that day made me feel. Not because of the food or the gifts, but because I was reminded that love can surprise you, that joy can still bloom, and that sometimes, the most extraordinary moments come when we least expect them.
My heart is full.
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