Missing Mummy

There aren't too many books you wish your children don't have to read.

Last week I found one that I pray my daughter doesn't have to read, and didn't borrow it then. This week I changed my mind and feel blessed that we have read the book together.

This is how the first page of the picture book started. On a cold and rainy morning, a boy went to the funeral of his mummy. He wasn't sure where his mummy has gone, and had tried looking for her everywhere, peeking behind the sofa and underneath the bed, in vain. He found lots of her belongings except her. The story itself, or at least the theme, is tearful.

We've been shying away from death the way people avoid talking about sexual education. I also felt a certain nagging worry, somewhere in my heart and my stomach (or my guts), wondering if my daughter would come out of the story shattered and frightened. "Does my daughter understand death and find ways to grapple with the emotional turmoil? And if she can, will she?" And on and on.

I read the story together with my daughter and wife last night. We were impressed by the way Rebecca Cobb painted the painful picture of child bereavement. Like dark chocolate, the bitter story isn't easy to swallow but still feels sweet in the throat. And of course, the lesson that Jasmine is about to learn could hardly be more permanent than the boy's memory of his mummy.