Having a mother who loves to complain makes Nazma feel that home is an exhausting emotional battlefield.
Every time her mother grumbles about the price of rice or unfulfilled desires, Nazma sees her father shrink further behind his plate, shouldering the burden.
The only way Nazma knows to defend her father is by not becoming an additional burden.
For Nazma, studying hard is no longer just a school obligation, but a rescue mission. She wants to finish her studies quickly, achieve success, and eventually take over the financial weight that has kept her father's shoulders stiff for so long.
In her cramped room, rows of formulas and stacks of books become her fortress against the voices of complaint outside the door.
Every stroke of the pen on paper is a promise to herself: one day, her father will be free from the heavy sighs of thinking about living costs, and her mother will lose any reason to feel lacking.
After finishing her meal, Endah stands up with a nimble movement. She immediately stacks the dirty dishes, carrying them to the sink with short, hurriedsteps.
To her, a clean table is a small certainty she can control amidst the crushing economic uncertainty. The sound of a rushing tap immediately fills the kitchen.
After ensuring all the dishes are clean and the dining table is clear again, Endah's footsteps pass the corner of the living room. There, an old box television stands frozen in silence.
Its dull, convex screen only catches reflections of dust, a dead object that surrendered to damage long ago and now merely serves as a junkyard ornament for the corner of the room.
Endah glances at it briefly before finally sauntering into the bedroom. She lies down, immediately seeking entertainment behind the bright glow of her phone screen.
Her focus is now completely swallowed by the digital world, leaving Ziko and Nazma in the remaining silence of the living area.
She walks toward the bedroom, and a second later the sound of phone notifications and laughter from short videos begins to crawl out from the gap in the door.
Her focus has now shifted entirely to the small screen in her hand, leaving a lingering silence at the dining table.
Ziko gazes at his daughter's hands, then shifts to Nazma's face, which still looks stiff.
Ziko's gaze is fixed on the plate in front of Nazma. There, a quarter plate of rice was finished by Nazma without a trace.
Lines of anxiety are clearly etched on Ziko's forehead, mapping a deep concern at how little energy his daughter's body absorbed tonight.
The plate is now clean.
"Eat plenty, child," Ziko says.
Nazma shakes her head gently, her lips curling into a forced, thin smile. She places her spoon on the edge of the plate, signaling that her mealtime is over.
Nazma shakes her head while saying, "I am full, Dad," she answers calmly.
Nazma stands up. She picks up her plate, which is now clean without a trace, then carries it toward the kitchen. Her steps are light, making almost no sound on the floor.
In the kitchen, she places the plate in the sink. The sound of ceramic touching the bottom of the basin rings sharply in the silence of the back room. She stares at her empty plate under the dim light of the kitchen lamp.
Who knows where her father's six siblings and her mother's fifteen siblings are when their family's days are like this.