As I stepped out of Penang international airport, the humidity hit me like I was peering into a just-opened rice cooker. The air carried whiffs of exhaust fumes, fried food and something earthy. It felt thrilling and familiar because I was born in Penang and lived there for six years before I moved to Australia. I looked back at my three children who were visiting for the first time. They were draped over their suitcases like wilted lettuce. “Welcome to Penang,” I said, wiping sweat off my brow.
It was July 2026. It had been 13 years since I last visited Penang, when my father had hosted a lavish wedding dinner featuring a champagne fountain and swan-shaped ice sculpture for me and my new husband. For my white, Australian husband, it was a trip of firsts: his first Chinese tea ceremony; his first 10-course banquet; the first time he met my extended family. But for me, it had been the last time I’d spoken Mandarin and the last time I had seen my grandmother before she died.
