IT HAD to happen sooner or later. But I was hoping later. Much later.

Still, there was no dodging the bullet. The question hung in the air, curling fetal in the air, like invisible cigarette smoke.

"Mummy, where do people go when they die?"

I looked up from the iPad, and my much-needed after- work game of Tiny Towers, and studied my five-year-old son, Julian.

He peered at me slightly anxiously from the other side of the dining table, waiting patiently for me to answer his question.

I turned off the iPad. This required my full attention.

"That's a very deep question," I told him. "And I don't know the answer. Nobody knows the answer for sure."

A confused "huh?" escaped his lips.

I pressed on: "Some people think that when you die, that's it, the end, nothing, blackness forever.

Other people think that you go to a very nice place called heaven, where everybody is young and happy forever. But you won't really know until the time comes."

I could see the wheels turning in his head, manufacturing more questions.

"What do you think happens when you die?" he asked, pointedly lobbing the ball back into my court.

"Um, I believe that I just turn into an air bubble and float around," I replied. "And wherever you go, I will be able to see you, and kiss you even though you don't know it," I added, touching him - pop! - lightly on the cheek.

"If I die, and go to heaven, will you be able to see me as an air bubble there?" he asked finally. "Maybe," I said. "Maybe."

Then, with a happy smile, he declared: "I like the heaven idea. I think that's where people go."

I have always believed that one must not sugar-coat things for children. I don't like lying to people I love, even if they are cute, smaller-sized people. But what is one to do when the subject is the grim one, about the Grim Reaper?

I am not religious and believe that we just get snuffed out like candles. That, I suspect, is something that might freak young children out.

The parenting websites I consulted later recommended just telling them the bare facts, on how death is a natural part of life, without confusing them with euphemisms; letting them grieve in the case of a death in the family; and answering their questions patiently over and over again.

After all, when kids ask about dying, it's reassurance that they want. That things will stay the same way forever, and that Mum and Dad and other loved ones will be around to look after them.

Many kids hate changes in their routine, and there's no greater wrenching to routine than "the Big Sleep".

Sure enough, Julian's questions about death seemed to coincide with his latest obsession about me not loving him.

The same evening that we had our "death talk", he had sidled up to me and said mournfully: "You haven't said you love me today."

In fact, I had. A few hours before, in the afternoon, I had cuddled and smooched him and told him I loved him.

It was our little secret: He was not to tell his younger brother Lucien, 23 months, that he is my favourite big boy (Lucien, of course, is my favourite small boy).

Julian added, with a wistful smile: "If you don't say you love me, ice will cover my heart."

I quickly reassured him that I did. He grinned. "Now, the ice is broken, and my heart is warm again," he exclaimed.

Perhaps it was just one of those philosophical things that kids on holiday have too much time to think about.

That night, he whispered in my ear: "Let's try not to die while we're alive, okay? We must make sure nobody shoots us."

After telling him there are no unauthorised guns in Singapore, I asked him to kick up his heels to a jaunty tune with me.

"Let's stay alive, yes," I said. "And while we're alive, let's dance, dance, dance."

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