Chapter 1
My name is Minul.
Ever since I was little, I’ve been used to waking up before sunrise. Not because I wanted to be the most hardworking child at school, but because before I could put on my uniform, there was still plenty of work I had to finish.
That morning, as usual, I walked to the market with a plastic basket in my hand. The air was still cold. The streets were wet from the remains of last night’s rain, while the shop lights had not all been turned on yet. In my head, I kept repeating the shopping list Mom had made so I wouldn’t forget a single ingredient.
Flour. Oil. Vegetables. Tempeh. Chilies.
I counted the money Mom had given me over and over. It wasn’t much. If I bought the wrong things, we might not have enough ingredients to sell fried snacks that day.
Mom was waiting for me at our little house. She was a homemaker, but in truth, she was the one who fought hardest for our family. In the past, Mom had worked as an office staffer. Her income had been enough to help cover the household expenses and had often even been the main support for our family.
But Dad took advantage of her.
When Mom still had batik fabric merchandise, Dad would often take the fabrics without permission. He sold them and used the money for his personal needs. Mom didn’t say much. She simply swallowed her disappointment alone, as if her patience had no limit.
Then Dad introduced one of his friends to Mom. Through that person, Dad got a job as a company driver. Mom hoped that once Dad started working, the burden on our family would become a little lighter.
That hope didn’t last long.
Every month, Dad gave only one hundred thousand rupiah for household expenses. That money was supposed to cover food, daily necessities, and our family’s needs. Of course, it was nowhere near enough.
So Mom began to sell fried snacks.
Every day, her hands smelled like oil and flour. She stood for hours in front of the stove, even though her back often hurt. If the money from selling wasn’t enough, Mom was forced to buy on credit from neighbors or the corner shop near our house.
Sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, Mom cried.
But I saw her.
I also saw how Mom tried to hide those tears whenever Dad came home. She wiped her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve, then put her usual expression back on. As if nothing had happened.
What I disliked most about Dad was the way he spoke to Mom. Every time Mom asked him for money, even if it was only a little, Dad always answered with hurtful words.
“Do you think I have that much money?”
“Stop asking all the time.”
“Take care of your own needs.”
I often clenched my fists when I heard him. I wanted so badly to defend Mom, but I was still too young to stand up to Dad. So whenever Mom cried, all I could do was hug her.
“Don’t cry, Ma,” I whispered.
Even though I wanted to cry myself.
From then on, I decided to help however I could.
After coming home from the market, I immediately got ready for school. Besides my textbooks, my bag held several packages of fried snacks, rice, and bottled water. I sold all of them to my classmates at school.
There was nothing special about what I sold. The fried snacks were just vegetable fritters, stuffed tofu, tempeh, and fried bananas. But every rupiah I earned felt incredibly meaningful. I gave the money to Mom after school so she could use it to buy food ingredients and things we needed for the house.
After school, I helped make fried snacks again. In the afternoon, I delivered fried snacks to vendors who were willing to sell Mom’s merchandise. After that, I went back to the market to buy the ingredients we would use the next morning.
That was how my days went.
Mornings were for the market.
Afternoons were for school.
Evenings were for delivering fried snacks.
Nights were for helping Mom.
I didn’t know when I had last truly felt like a child.
But every time I saw Mom smile, even if only for a moment, I felt a little less tired. I knew our life wasn’t easy. I knew there were still many days ahead of us, days we would have to get through with barely enough money and hearts that were often hurt.
But I also knew one thing.
As long as Mom hadn’t given up, I wouldn’t be the first to give up.