As a family, we never went all out for Christmas. I can’t remember the last time we put up a tree or hung tinsel. Probably not since we were kids. Bah humbug, you might think, but that’s what it’s like having unsentimental Chinese immigrant parents. It was a stripped-back affair, but still cosy and full of tasty food. But Christmas 2015 was different because that was the last one we would spend with our mum. Instead of us just stuffing ourselves silly, my brother bought us festive jumpers which we all wore on Christmas Day, laughing and joking as we took photos together. My mum looked tiny in a jumper that swamped her. It was a brief moment of levity during a fraught period that had, until then, been dominated by frequent stays in the hospital. My mum had been sick with bile duct cancer for nearly two years and was fading fast by then. Her doctors weren’t optimistic and had told us she didn’t have long left. Other than that, it was much like every other Christmas. My dad spent all day in the kitchen making delicious chicken with the crispiest skin and perfect roast potatoes. We tried to find something decent to watch on TV while my mum napped on the sofa. My siblings and I worked our way through tubs of Celebrations, trying to numb the pain with sugar. The giant box of Ferrero Rocher, which my mum loved so much, was left uneaten. Throughout her illness, my mum had been so stoic (even refusing morphine right up to the very end), but I still remember how she broke down one evening because she couldn’t taste anything any more. “What’s the point of living?” she’d sobbed as we cajoled her to eat a few spoonfuls of dinner. It had seemed one of the crueller side effects of her chemotherapy treatment, that she was robbed of such a vital source of joy in her last few months. She gingerly tasted some of the delicious chicken and perfect roast potatoes and pushed the rest aside. It’s a weird feeling knowing that someone you love is going to die soon; you are suspended in this strange limbo, wishing their pain was over but also terrified of the day when they are no longer with you. Every moment, you brace yourself for impact, unsure when you’ll be struck by the full force of the devastation that awaits you. But I felt unbelievably grateful that she had made it this far. For me, that was the best gift I could have had that Christmas – extra time to spend with her. Even if it was just to give her a hug, or sit next to her quietly while she dozed off. In the months before, she had been in and out of the hospital. After a particularly bad infection, we had been told by the doctors: this is it, she’s going to die soon, prepare yourselves. But somehow she managed to pull through and come home. A miracle. It was a huge relief to get off the high-wire of constant anxiety and adrenaline, even temporarily. After that Christmas, she struggled on for a few more family occasions – her birthday, Mother’s Day, my sister’s birthday. Each one we tried to make as special and memorable as we could. She finally died after my uncle arrived from Hong Kong to see her. They say some people hold on until a certain event happens. He was the only remaining member of her family – their parents were long gone – and she waited until he was there, her little brother who had the same kind eyes as her. It is seven years since my mother died, and in that time we’ve resurrected the Christmas jumpers tradition, dusting them off again to welcome new members to the family. If my mum’s last Christmas taught me anything, it’s that it’s not about the decorations or the presents or the copious amount of chocolate you get to eat guilt-free. It’s about who is there with you to celebrate – the people you can count on to indulge in a moment of pure silliness to help each other through the heartbreak, making memories you’ll always treasure.