"I dreamt of por-por last night" was her first WhatsApp message in the family group chat.
"And it was really vivid - I was supposed to give her an angpao".
Our mum was the first to reply.
"Por por is no longer around. Give mummy the angpao instead," wrote Mrs Lee, who followed up appropriately with a gif of a fat hamster cartoon flapping its ridiculously short limbs as if trying to carve out food out of thin air.
Our brother Barry - who's always too busy to reply in full sentences - wrote: "Wow! I miss por-por".
The unenthusiastic replies, all of five lines, lulled after 50 minutes and my sister's topic died a natural death.
Not satisfied with such cold treatment, my sis engaged me for a one-on-one.
"I haven't dreamt of por-por in nearly 30 years," she revealed.
"Do you think it's a sign that she needs money in the afterworld?"
I didn't reply her immediately, choosing to weigh my answer very carefully instead.
The key phrase that got me thinking was "in nearly 30 years" which means, por-por had been in my sister's dreams until she was around 14 years old.
And that made sense.
I was 10 when our granny died.
My sis was 13.
Barry was 8.
I remember the day very clearly.
It was after dinner, and as usual, por-por sat at the front of her shophouse, enjoying the evening breeze while chanting softly to herself, clutching a long string of Buddhist prayer beads in one hand.
I was sitting near her, always happy to be playing in our front porch, while my mum and favourite aunt nibbled on melon seeds, their usual after-dinner snacks.
Next thing I remember, mum and aunt started fussing around por-por, raising their voices to ask if she were alright.
I watched quietly as por-por grew sleepier and sleepier by the minute, her breaths seemingly more laboured and shallow than her last.
Minutes later, my sis timidly walked out to the porch, drawn by the commotion.
We held hands anxiously as we saw mum and aunt holding por-por by her shoulders shaking her to no end.
Soon, my other aunts and uncles who live in next shophouse, along with some concerned neighbours, started gathering around por-por.
I remember two of my uncles lifting por-por from her seat to her room.
By then, voices were raised, cries were heard. And the adults were scrambling around the house - from por-por's room to the telephone to the front porch, and to her room, and to the front porch again.
I had never seen the adults so panicked before.
I remember our usually cheerful and playful mum had started to wail like she was my age.
My sis and I held hands tightly till they felt cold.
My favourite aunt, however, was eerily calm.
In her usual clinical fashion, she began instructing her siblings - even her older ones - on what to do next.
At some point, one of the neighbours pointed out the obvious.
Something that none of por-por's seven children were willing to acknowledge.
The 89-year-old grand matriarch is no more.
I remember that my sis and I were sent upstairs, instructed to make sure Barry the pig remained sleeping and we were not to come downstairs.
My sis and I didn't speak that night, both of us frightened by our first sight of death.
The death of our ever-doting por-por.
In retrospect, por-por probably doted on my sis and Barry a lot more than she did me, because I was a wilful brat who would always talk back to her.
But that's not the point.
That night, the adults remained awake for as long as I remember, while my sis and I drifted to sleep only when child-like exhaustion lured us to slumber.
The next day, I remember being allowed to stay home but I was in no holiday mood.
Everyone was sombre.
So I remained obediently quiet in my own room, mindful enough to not bother the vexed adults.
My sis, however, had to attend school for some test or exam.
When she finished school, my sis went to por-por's house first - which was what we were all taught to do as kids.
When you come home, you make sure you go to por-por's home first to greet her before you do anything.
That afternoon, my sis habitually walked into the living area of por-por's home, only to scream at what she saw.
Por-por's body had been freshly prepared and made up for her five-day wake.
In my sister's memory, por-por wore a traditional and grand-looking samfu "the kind you would see in Hong Kong zombie movies."
Por-por's face was powdered to a near shade of white, her lips a contrasting bold red with two round patches dotted on each side of por-por's cheeks like they were mini peaches.
I remember my sis having not been able to sleep for the next few months, often crying in the middle of the night, haunted by the unearthly look of por-por, who had such a genteel, wrinkly face when she was alive.
Lucky for me, my last memory of por-por was of her chanting her prayer beads, and then breathing slowly and dying what seems to be peacefully and effortlessly in front of my eyes.
I can only imagine the trauma sis had to go through.
I recall sis not being able to sleep well for at least six months.
In retrospect, her experience must have caused her to hate - or rather, fear - watching Hong Kong zombie movies later on.
Which is why I had to be really careful with what I replied my 43-year-old sis about por-por, given that the scardy-cat now lives alone in a relatively big apartment.
"Do you think por-por needs money? You think I should burn her some?"
Before I could give any input, sis again typed on WhatsApp.
"Uncle just replied me separately - he says por-por is a millionaire and is richer than all of us combined given that over the years, the uncles and aunties made regular fund transfers to por-por by literally burning money".
"Cousin Jo says por-por would have been reincarnated by now".
And then my hilarious brother told sis:
"Do NOT burn por-por money. Nowadays got a lot of identity theft. What if it's a ghost swindler trying to cheat money out of you then how?"
Sis later told me she'd wait and see if por-por would return to her dreams to ask for money.
"If she returns again, it means it's real right and she needs money right?" my sis the superstitious queen asked.
I didn't know what to say.
"What did mummy say?" I ask, hoping that sis got some motherly advice separately.
"That woman is still asking me to give her the angpao".
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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people
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