To Ziko's left sat Nazma. Today, there had not been a single request for construction or anything related to building.
Ziko held his spoon, letting its tip clink against the plate. The tense lines on his face were on hiatus for now, his hands clean of cement dust. This stood in sharp contrast to Nazma, whose shoulders remained stiff.
Ziko reached for a glass, his movements calm.
"It is unusually quiet today. Your phone is usually ringing constantly," Endah remarked.
Nazma ate her rice slowly.
Ziko merely shrugged while taking a bite. "It is just slow, Ma. Not our luck yet," he answered casually. He glanced at Nazma, who kept her head down, chewing with a rhythmic motion and looking only at her own plate.
Endah exhaled. Her hands continued to scoop rice movingthe steaming white mounds into the plates before her.
Her gaze fell on the rice, watching the grains cling to one another as the thin wisps of steam vanished into the air.
She pulled out a chair and sat. Her movements were weary.
"If it stays this quiet, I will be at a loss on how to manage the money," Endah lamented.
"Especially with the price of rice rising."
Her jet-black hair fell over her shoulders.
White steam veiled her face. The smooth, dark strands framed her tired features.
Endah stared at herplate. Domestic burdens and personal desires seemed to collide inside her head.
At this vast table, an awkward atmosphere often disturbed the peace Nazma sought while being intimate with her food.
Endah then glanced toward Ziko.
"Daddy. I want a treat," she added. Grumbling.
The sentence sounded like an alarm to the ears of a man who had just admitted his world was devoid of projects.
To those who rarely sweat to earn it, money is often seen as water that flows freely, to be dipped into whenever thirst strikes.
The reality is not like that.
Every rupiah is the result of an aching back and breathless lungs.
There is a bitter irony when hands clean of cement dust, hands forced into idleness by circumstance, are confronted with a request that feels so light to utter. Yet it is so heavy to fulfill.
A father is often trapped in a dignified silence. It is impossible for him to explode and reveal how difficult it is to turn the wheels of the economy when the engine is stalled.
For him, complaining is a form of defeat. Deep in his heart, a wounded whisper lingers; a realization that the outside world is cruel in granting fortune.
Meanwhile, inside the home, needs seem blind to how much blood he sheds out there. Giving in times of plenty is ordinary, but remaining the pillar in times of drought is a silent burden understood only by those called "Father."
He returned to his rice and tempeh.
Ziko could only take a long breath, while Nazma kept her head down, eating her rice with tempeh. To her, her mother's complaint was a daily reminder that the adult world is much more complicated—and sometimes more childish—than the chemical formulas she studied.
Ziko remained calm, the movement of his spoon slowing down. He had no wish to add to his mother's mental burden, but the fact that his phone had stayed silent all day could not be denied.
Nazma continued to eat slowly, but her ears caught every vibration of anxiety in her mother's voice.
On that small wooden stool, she felt a strange pressure. Her fascination with chemistry and the mystery of the white car earlier suddenly collided with a bitter reality:
her family was in need of certainty.
"There will be a way, Ma. Tomorrow, I will try making the rounds to that project at the edge of the village," Ziko interjected, trying to cool the atmosphere.