If you’ve ever lived with a student preparing for a major exam, you’ll know the household transforms. Normal rules go out the window. The air changes. In my case, the air has literally come to a standstill.
My littlest daughter, Cass, is in the thick of her SPM Trials. Two weeks down, two to go. But that’s just the warm-up act. The main event—the actual SPM—looms in early November, meaning our household is operating under strict martial law until December 23, 2026. I have the date circled on my calendar, not just for her, but for my own liberation.
The past fortnight has been a masterclass in sleep deprivation (for her) and sonic deprivation (for me). Cass survives on a patchwork of rest: a few hours of frantic studying at night, followed by a 2-3 hour coma in the afternoon after school. I watch this erratic cycle with a knot of worry in my stomach. Her sleep hygiene is, to put it mildly, non-existent. But as every Malaysian parent knows, during SPM, you pick your battles. A nap is a victory. A completed chapter is a cause for celebration for the student.
My battle, however, is fought in absolute silence.
My work desk is conveniently—or rather, inconveniently—located next to the dining table. This table has now become Cass’s official Command Centre for Academic Excellence. And the first rule of Command Centre? Total. Absolute. Silence.
My beloved radio, my companion of years with its chatter and songs? Gone. My YouTube playlists of 80s and 90s power ballads that get me through my workday? Muted. Even the gentle, life-giving whirr of the living room fan has been deemed an unacceptable disturbance. Why? Because the wind, she says, threatens the delicate ecosystem of her study notes.
Even her grandmother has to play her favorite Rumikub on her iPad and listen to the news on the TV, at a muted volume.
And the aftermath of the study each night? Eraser dirt on the chair, table, and floor. Dirty plates and cups scattered on the table. Every morning, I put on my disposable nitrile gloves and clean the dining area, wiping off not only food crumbs but eraser dirt.
Can you imagine? No music. No news. No moving air. In Malaysia. It’s a special kind of torture. But a parent adapts. My remedy? An escape plan.
I’ve decided to invest in a laptop. This isn’t just a new piece of technology; it’s my ticket to freedom. I will retreat to my bedroom, rearranging furniture to carve out a new, tiny sanctuary. I’ll grant her sovereignty over the entire living and dining room. She can have the kingdom of silence all to herself.
This is the sacrifice, isn’t it? The quiet offering we make for their future. We endure the silence, the stress, the weird sleep schedules, and the temporary loss of our own comforts. We do it not for the grades, but for the person.
I don’t expect straight As from Cass. I expect her to look back on this time and know that her home was a place that supported her, even if that support was… quiet. I know she’s trying her best, and whatever that best translates to on her results slip, I will be there, immensely proud of the resilient young woman she is becoming.
After the final paper on December 23rd, the silence will be broken. We’ll finally discuss what’s next. She’s already yearning for a part-time job, to taste independence and earn her own money. I’ll happily let her have that experience. And I’m quietly, curiously excited to see what path she chooses at university.
For now, I’ll soon be in my room, with my new laptop and a fan on full blast. It’s a small price to pay.
To all the parents out there in the same silent boat: hang in there. The exam season will pass, the music will return, and the fans will spin once more. And it will all be worth it.
