The cold cement floor slowly absorbed what little warmth remained in Aira’s body. The burning in her upper abdomen continued to claw at her, spreading sharply as if a blunt dagger were twisting her stomach without mercy. Her breathing came fast, heavy, and broken.
“No... not now...” Aira whispered, holding back the sob lodged in her throat. Her right hand trembled violently as she groped across the rough floor, searching for something to brace herself against. “I have to be strong... I have to!”
She squeezed her eyes shut and applied the slow-breathing technique she had once read about in a secondhand pregnancy guide. Breathe in... breathe out...
She repeated it over and over until, little by little, the twisting pain began to ease, leaving behind an agonizing weakness in every joint.
With what little strength she had left, Aira dragged herself over to lean against the wooden leg of the old sewing machine that had belonged to her late mother.
She slumped there in surrender, her body limp, cold sweat soaking her temples and neck.
Outside, the dim twilight began sinking into night. The crickets called back and forth in the brush beside the house, replacing the noisy jeers of the villagers who had wounded her spirit moments earlier.
Aira looked around the room as it grew darker. Without the two one-hundred-thousand-rupiah bills she had had earlier, her cloth wallet was now completely empty. She had no savings left at all. In the kitchen cabinet, she knew there was only half a cup of rice and some table salt.
“Fraud. She claimed she was a widow whose husband had died, but it turns out...”
Mrs. Lisa’s words from that afternoon echoed in Aira’s ears again, becoming a sharp reverberation that pounded against her head.
A bitter smile formed on Aira’s pale lips. They had never known the truth. The villagers in this village had never wanted to ask what had really happened six months ago in the city where she had once gone to seek her fortune.
All they saw was a young woman returning alone to her late mother’s village, carrying two lives within her, with no husband at her side.
To the rigid, gossip-hungry villagers, the story “My husband is dead” that she had once told them was nothing more than a cheap lie meant to conceal a disgrace. And starting that afternoon, their social verdict against her had officially been delivered.
*TOK! TOK! TOK!*
The soft knock at the front door made Aira jump. Her heart began pounding again. Had Mrs. Lisa come back? Or was it another villager coming to drive her out?
“Aira... It’s Grandma Sri, dear...” an elderly, gentle voice called from behind the door.
The breath Aira had been holding slowly escaped in relief. Grandma Sri was an old woman who sold leaf-wrapped tempeh and lived two houses away.
Using the sewing table for support, Aira forced herself to stand. Her trembling legs carried her slowly to open the door.
The rotting wooden door swung open, revealing Grandma Sri hunched over, a small torch in her hand. Her cloudy eyes gazed at Aira’s deathly pale face with deep concern.
“Grandma...” Aira’s voice was hoarse.
Without saying a word, Grandma Sri held out an old tin tiffin carrier and a newspaper-wrapped bundle.
“Grandma heard the commotion this afternoon,” she whispered, as if afraid another pair of ears might overhear. “There’s warm rice and stir-fried water spinach inside. And here’s fifty thousand rupiah... use it to buy rice or food for tomorrow.”
The tears Aira had been holding back finally spilled down her cheeks. There were still people who cared about her after all.
“Grandma... I can’t take your money. You’re struggling too—”
“Take it, Aira,” Grandma Sri cut in, firm but warm. She clasped Aira’s cold hand and pressed the crumpled bills into her palm. “It’s not for you. It’s for the baby. Don’t listen to what people outside say. They have mouths, but they don’t have eyes to see your goodness.”
Grandma Sri gently caressed Aira’s cheek, then stroked the girl’s swollen belly.
“Sleep and rest. Tomorrow morning, Grandma knows someone who needs her children’s school uniforms repaired. I’ll send her here, hm?”
After Grandma Sri left and the door was locked again, Aira sank into the wooden chair in front of her sewing machine. She stared at the food carrier on the table. Grandma Sri’s simple warmth seemed to pour cool water over her spirit, which had nearly been burned to ash.
She reached for the sewing needle and the loose green-thread bobbin. With hands that were calmer now, Aira threaded the tiny eye of the needle again.
“I can’t give up,” she whispered to herself, stroking her belly. “As long as this old sewing machine can still turn, we’ll be able to survive, dear.”
Aira lit the kerosene lamp and set it right beside the sewing machine. In the darkness of the village night that was beginning to turn against her, the creaking sound of feet pressing the sewing machine pedal rang out once more, breaking the silence and making it clear that she had not yet lost.
“No matter what happens, Mommy will do her best for you, dear.” In her heart, Aira spoke softly, as if the baby in her womb could understand her words.
Yes... at least... in this unfair world, she had one reason to keep holding on.
She was no longer alone.