From elementary school through middle school, my world was filled with towering dreams. I wanted to become a great architect who could create all kinds of magnificent buildings and improve city planning to make cities more beautiful, just like Dad. As an only child, I grew up surrounded by unconditional love. My parents always supported everything I wanted, as long as it would have a positive impact on my future.
Since I was noticeably weak in math, I gladly accepted Mom’s suggestion that I sign up for extra tutoring after school. My days were incredibly productive. Along with preparing myself and honing my skills to pursue my dream, I kept busy with all kinds of extracurricular activities at school. That wasn’t all—I also took private violin and cello lessons at a renowned music studio. Back then, my life was colorful and perfect. My parents and grandparents on both sides spoiled me like a princess.
But a terrible storm came without warning just before I started high school. Dad was in a horrific car accident. After fighting for his life in the hospital for several months, he finally succumbed to his injuries. Losing the man she loved so dearly dealt Mom a devastating psychological blow. She was shaken to her core. To escape her grief and profound sense of loss, she began turning to alcohol.
Little by little, alcohol took control of her, and Mom began to ignore me. It never once occurred to her that I, her own daughter, was suffering just as deeply over the terrible thing that had happened to Dad. When we should have been holding each other close, staying connected, and supporting one another, Mom chose to leave me alone in the silence while she sank deeper into mourning her misfortune.
Her bad habit went beyond getting drunk alone in her room. Mom began coming home late at night, heavily intoxicated, after spending all day at the office. It seemed the alcohol at home was no longer enough to numb her pain; she started going to nightclubs regularly, just to escape the bitter reality of her life for a while.
“Mom, just stay with me tonight. Please don’t come home late, just this once...” I pleaded one morning as I watched her getting ready for work.
Mom only glanced at me in the mirror, without giving me a single verbal response.
“Mom...” I whined, making one last attempt as a child who missed the attention her mother had long since stopped giving her.
This time, my plea got a reaction. The woman abruptly stopped applying her makeup.
“Naya, you’re old enough to understand what’s going on,” Mom said, turning to look at me for a moment. Her hand hovered in the air, as if she wanted to touch my cheek but wasn’t sure. “I have to work this hard so we can keep living comfortably. Someday, we’ll be together and happy again, just like before.” She ended coldly, then turned her back to me and went back to doing her makeup.
At the time, I was still trying to be understanding. I could feel the psychological turmoil raging inside Mom. I thought maybe she just needed a little more time to heal her heart and return to her old self. That was why I tried to tolerate all the drastic changes in her behavior, while nurturing the hope that one day she would be warm toward me again.
But time kept moving forward, never waiting for anyone to be ready. The hope I’d nurtured slowly withered because Mom showed no sign of changing. Rather than getting better, things only added to the worry and emotional strain weighing on me. Mom kept coming home late at night, drunk. The difference was that now she no longer came home alone. A stranger who looked much younger than Mom started coming over with her.
At first, he only came to walk Mom to the front door. But as time went on, he grew bolder, eventually making a habit of staying overnight. Even though we lived in an upscale neighborhood where people tended to keep to themselves, didn’t know one another, and had no interest in other people’s private affairs, I still felt deeply uncomfortable and humiliated by his presence under our roof.
Mom had become like a wild woman, living freely without any regard for decency. It was getting difficult—almost impossible—to have a sane conversation with her. Whenever I voiced a protest, Mom would erupt in anger and curse me out. My patience was truly put to the test one day when Mom didn’t feel the slightest bit of shame or embarrassment after our housekeeper, Asnah, caught her in the act with that man.
From that moment on, I lost all respect for her. I began to feel disgusted whenever I saw Mom’s face. Not only had she betrayed Dad’s pure love so soon after his death, she had also tarnished every beautiful memory and sacred trace he’d left behind in this house by bringing in another man—someone who didn’t even come close to measuring up to my late father.
The more often I voiced my anger and objections, the more outrageous Mom’s behavior became in response.
“You have to show Bernard some respect, Naya! He’s the man I’ve chosen to be my new life partner, taking your father’s place!” Mom declared one night, her tone leaving no room for argument.
The words that came from her lips that night struck like lightning out of a clear blue sky, shattering my entire world. Bernard was much younger than Mom. He was only ten years older than me. How could Mom force me to accept a man who could’ve been my big brother as a father figure? How could she lower herself by marrying someone like him?
I spent my energy arguing with Mom countless times, flatly rejecting her decision and pleading with her to come to her senses. But what could I do? I was just a teenager, alone in that house. Mom stood firm, set on her decision to make their relationship official.
The wedding day finally arrived, bringing an unbearable sorrow into our living room. Dad’s luxurious house was decorated in white, but to me, the atmosphere felt like a second funeral for him. Bernard stood there in an expensive suit I knew had been bought with Dad’s savings. In the corner of the room, Asnah could only bow her head, her eyes glistening with tears. She didn’t dare look at me, sitting in the last row of chairs with a handkerchief clenched in my fist.
From that day on, my world became a cold domestic hell. Bernard began to show his true colors. Whenever Mom went to work, he would often look at me with a calculating gaze that made my skin crawl. At school, I could no longer focus on my studies. I’d always gotten perfect grades, but now I often found myself staring blankly at an empty sheet of paper during math tests. My classmates began whispering behind my back, gossiping about how my mother had married a younger man for her nighttime pleasure. Whenever the rumors reached my ears, it felt as if an invisible knife were peeling away my dignity.
It all came to a head one night near the end of my sophomore year of high school. Mom hadn’t come home from work, and the house was quiet. I was in my room, trying to calm myself by playing my beloved violin, letting its melancholy melody carry my thoughts to Dad’s memory.
Suddenly, my bedroom door opened without a knock. Bernard stood there, his breath reeking of alcohol, his gaze wild and repulsive.
“Your violin sounds beautiful, Naya... just like you,” he whispered, stepping closer and shutting the door behind him with a click that locked it.
Terror gripped my chest. My whole body trembled as Bernard tried to grab my arm. In a desperate panic, I swung my violin and smashed it into his face. He cried out in pain. I sprinted out of my room, ran down the stairs, and burst into Dad’s study, which Mom had kept locked all this time. I locked the door from the inside and sobbed beneath Dad’s desk, clutching one of his dusty architectural blueprints.
In that dark room, filled with Dad’s familiar masculine scent, a momentous decision took shape in my mind. I couldn’t keep being a victim of the destruction Mom had caused. I had to save myself.
The next day, with secret help from Asnah, who packed my things, I decided to leave the house without saying goodbye. I called my paternal grandparents and told them everything that had happened, holding nothing back. They cried hysterically when they heard, and came to pick me up that very day so I could move to another city.
Five years passed in the blink of an eye, bringing a major change in the course of my life.
This morning, the sky over Jakarta was bright and clear. I stood gracefully on the podium of a prestigious state university in my graduation gown. Clutched in my hands was my diploma, proof that I’d graduated at the top of the Architecture program. Tears slipped slowly down my cheeks, not from sadness but from overwhelming emotion. In the front row, my grandparents smiled proudly and waved, with Asnah beside them. I’d invited her to share in my big day.
I’d done it. I’d proved that the storm hadn’t destroyed me; it had forged me into a strong woman. I’d made my childhood dream come true and carried on Dad’s legacy without a penny of financial support from the woman who gave birth to me.
In a letter sent by a lawyer a month ago, I’d learned that Mom and Bernard’s marriage had ended tragically. Bernard had run off with all the marital assets and left behind a mountain of company debt, leaving Mom in the chains of regret and poverty in the upscale home that had since been seized by the bank. Mom had tried to find me, begging for forgiveness in a dozen letters I never answered.
It wasn’t that I held a grudge. I’d forgiven Mom in my heart long ago, for the sake of my own peace. But I also understood that every choice an adult makes has consequences. Mom had chosen her dark path, and I’d managed to escape that darkness and find my own light.
As I gazed at the blue sky from the graduation podium, I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined Dad’s warm smile up above. Dad, Naya’s an architect now. Naya will build a beautiful new world, one no storm can ever destroy.
And that day, beneath the roar of hundreds of people applauding, I knew this wasn’t the end of everything. It was a happy new beginning—a complete victory for a child who refused to surrender to a broken fate.