When I started middle school, I began to understand pride.
My friends went home in cars their parents came to pick them up in. Some stepped out through automatic doors, some waited beneath their drivers’ umbrellas, and others pretended not to see me standing by the roadside, searching for a minibus that might not even pass by.
I began to feel that the way someone went home could make them look more or less important.
One afternoon, rain began falling just as the dismissal bell rang. Water poured from the school gutters like curtains. The students gathered in front of the gate; some called their parents, while others climbed into cars that were already waiting.
I stood a little apart from them, staring at my phone screen.
I could have gone home by myself. I knew the way by heart, was used to getting rained on, and was old enough to keep my bag dry beneath my jacket. But that day, whether because of the rain or because I wanted to feel like my friends, I opened my chat with Dad.
“Dad, can you pick me up?”
His reply came a few moments later.
“On my way. Ten minutes.”
I read the message twice. Ten minutes sounded like a short time when someone was waiting at home. But in front of the school, beneath the rain that kept growing heavier, ten minutes felt like a promise that could be collected.
I waited.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. The other students began heading home. The school gate grew emptier. Rainwater bounced off the asphalt, carrying leaves, candy wrappers, and little puddles in from the sidewalk.
I sent another message.
No reply.
I learned later that Dad had left as soon as he received my message. He ordered a motorcycle rideshare near the motorcycle repair shop. The first driver canceled the ride. The second accepted, then drove around without ever actually getting closer. The third canceled when the rain grew heavier.
Canceled three times.
For two hours, he waited by the roadside, moving from one pickup point to another, while trying to make sure the raincoat he had brought wouldn’t get wet too.
By the time he finally arrived, it was almost dark.
I saw him from across the street. His shirt clung to his body. His hair was wet. Water dripped from the ends of his sleeves and his long pants. He walked quickly, carrying my raincoat wrapped in a thin plastic bag.
I should have felt relieved.
But shame came first.
I was ashamed that he had arrived soaked through. Ashamed that some of my friends were still standing near the gate and might see him. Ashamed that the person picking me up hadn’t come in a car, but on a body that looked as though the rain had already defeated it.
Dad stopped in front of me, breathing a little heavily.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Traffic on Pemuda.”
He held out the raincoat.
“Put it on. You’ll catch a cold.”
I took it without looking at his face.
“Yeah.”
There was nothing I could say. If I asked why his clothes were wet, the answer would certainly be simple. If I thanked him, my voice might sound strange. So I stayed quiet, put the raincoat in my bag, and walked beside him.
The rain was still falling. Dad didn’t complain. Every so often, he only glanced my way to make sure I didn’t step into a puddle that was too deep.
That night, I finally opened my bag and found the raincoat still neatly wrapped. Dad was soaked through, but he had kept the thing he brought for me dry.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my phone screen. His short message was still there.
“On my way. Ten minutes.”
The ten minutes he promised had turned into a two-hour journey, three cancellations, and a body that came home carrying the rain.
I didn’t yet know how to repay any of it.
But that night, for the first time, I made a promise to myself.
Someday, when I was grown up, I would be the one to pick Dad up.