Saturday morning begins the same way the others have — breakfast, coffee, everyone moving around the house in that familiar rhythm we’ve settled into. But underneath it all is a different kind of energy. While the rest of us ease into the day, Ronald and Ella are quietly preparing for their trip back to Singapore. It’s their last full day with us, and we all feel it.

Before this trip even begins, the three of us — Ronald, Ella, and I — spend countless hours on FaceTime trying to piece everything together. They’re in Singapore, I’m in the U.S., and the only time we can talk is after Ronald gets off work. That means I’m the one awake at one or two in the morning, waiting for his call so we can go over routes, hotels, schedules, and all the little details that make a trip like this possible. Sometimes Ryzen pops in, curious and full of energy, adding his own charm to the planning sessions.

Those late‑night calls become part of the heartbeat of this journey. Ronald uses all of his vacation time for the entire year just to be with us — something I will always be grateful for. He doesn’t have to, but he does, without hesitation.

Their flight isn’t until early Sunday morning — 5 AM — but because it’s international, they need to be at the airport three hours before. That means leaving the house around 10:30 PM on Saturday night. The flight itself is only about two and a half hours, but they have a full 32‑hour layover in Vietnam before the final leg home. Ella has never been to Vietnam, so she’s actually excited about the stopover. They already have a full plan mapped out — hitting as many Michelin‑star restaurants as possible and turning that 32‑hour layover into a little adventure of their own.

We spend most of Saturday out and about, shopping for the things they want to bring back to Singapore — the little items you can’t easily find there, the things that feel like home. It’s practical and ordinary, yet somehow emotional. Every store we walk into, every item they pick up, is a reminder that their time with us is running out.

The day moves slowly, the way days do when you’re trying to hold onto them. We talk, we rest, we try to pretend it’s just another day. But every so often, one of us glances at the clock, silently counting down to the moment they’ll be gone.

When it’s finally time for them to leave, the goodbyes come in waves — hugs that linger, eyes that fill faster than anyone expects, and that familiar tightness in the throat that comes when you’re trying to be strong for each other.

Because they have to leave so late at night, we don’t go to the airport with them. Instead, Ella’s family — her sister, brother‑in‑law, and two nephews — take them. When they walk out the door, the house falls quiet in a way that feels unfamiliar. The group feels smaller already, even though they’ve only just left. We don’t know when we’ll see them again. All we know is we’re hoping it won’t take another six years.

A 32‑hour layover, a 32‑hour feast. Vietnam turns waiting into an adventure