After the whispered rebellion that shook the foundation of my relationship with Father, the morning air in our house felt like glass trodden softly. The cracks were invisible, but every step risked a cut. Usually, mornings were our family's orchestra: the clink of plates, Indra and Putri bickering over cereal, the hiss of boiling water for Father's thick black coffee. Those sounds were the house's breath. Now, that breath was held. All that remained was a clotted silence, dense and pervasive, filling every corner like toxic fog.
I stepped into the dining room, my feet carrying an extra weight. Father was already seated at the head of the table, his back rigid like a monument. In his hands was yesterday's crumpled newspaper, but his eyes didn't follow the words. His gaze was empty, piercing through the paper, through the table—as if the chair opposite, my usual seat, was an absolute void.
"Indra," his voice broke the silence, startling my brother. "Don't forget your sports cap. It's scorching this afternoon." His eyes stayed fixed on the newspaper. "Putri," he continued, still not looking up, "finish your chocolate milk."
I slumped into my chair. The white rice in front of me had lost all appeal. Every clink of my spoon against the plate sounded deafening. Mother, usually cheerful, sat stiffly. She tried to offer a smile, a fragile bridge across the chasm, but it wavered. Her eyes were puffy. With an almost imperceptible motion, she placed the largest piece of fried egg on my plate. A wordless message: *I see you. I'm still here.* But that small warmth drowned in the icy tide radiating from Father.
Suddenly, Putri, in her innocence, turned to Mother. "Why isn't Father talking to Kak Yid?"
The world stopped spinning. Mother froze. Father's face hardened. With a tightly controlled motion, he folded his newspaper. "I'm off," he said flatly, only to Mother. Then he strode out. The front door closed with a *click* that felt like a prison gate locking.
A cold war had been declared. And I, Muhammad Rasyid, was both the demilitarized zone and the target.
Messages and Cracked Drawings
At school during lunch break, I opened my lunchbox listlessly. Rice and the fried egg Mother had given me that morning. But as I lifted my spoon, I found a small, neatly folded piece of paper tucked underneath. It was from Mother's shopping notebook, written in her distinctive handwriting:
"Be patient, dear. Eat well to stay strong. I'm here."
Those three short sentences felt like a warm blanket in the middle of winter. I ate my lunch eagerly that day, not out of hunger but because a new strength flowed from Mother's handwritten words.
The Neighbor's Praise
That afternoon, after school, the house was still just as frozen. While I swept the front porch, Father returned from work. He parked his GL motorcycle without much talk, just as Pak RT, heading to the warung, passed by our alley.
"Evening, Pak Sudirman. Just back from work?" Pak RT greeted warmly, pausing briefly.
Father nodded curtly, forcing a slight smile. "Yes, Pak RT. You know how it is…"
Pak RT's eyes shifted to me, holding the broom. "But the exhaustion must vanish seeing a pious son like this," he continued, nodding toward me. "Rasyid here, quiet as he is, is so diligent at the surau. Never misses an evening. I'm impressed."
Father, his face previously sour, lifted his chin slightly. A glint of pride flashed in his eyes. "Alhamdulillah, Pak RT," he replied. I could only lower my head further, wishing the porch tiles would swallow me. That praise, instead of warming me, felt like an ice block hurled at my chest.
Tension in Private Spaces
That night, after the pressure of Father's silence and Pak RT's praise, I needed an escape. In our room, on our thin mattress, I pulled out my secret notebook. My fingers began sketching a gearbox, trying to calm my mind with the logic of machines. Suddenly, the door creaked open. Indra, my brother, barged in without asking to grab his toy car.
"What's Kak Yid drawing?" he asked, pointing at my notebook.
My heart nearly stopped. In a panic, I snapped the notebook shut and slipped it under my pillow. "Homework," I said curtly, my voice catching. "Drawing homework." Indra just nodded and ran out. I exhaled, my chest still pounding. Even here, I wasn't entirely safe.
Indra's Question
The next two days passed in the same silence. I felt like a ghost unacknowledged in my own home. Father passed by me as if I were invisible. On the second afternoon, as I tried to do homework in the living room, Indra approached. He didn't bring his comic book, just stood staring at me. "Kak Yid, why doesn't Father smile much anymore?" he asked innocently. "Were you naughty?"
That innocent question cut deeper than Father's cold stares. I could only shake my head slowly, unable to answer. Indra's naive words made me realize that my rift with Father was no longer our secret. It had become a poison seeping into the air of our home.
Sari's Drawing
That night, as I tried to do homework in our room, Sari entered quietly. Without a word, she placed a sheet of drawing paper on my desk and hurried out, as if shy. I stared at it. It was her usual scene—our family in front of the house. But this time, she'd added a jagged crack splitting the picture in two, separating me from Father. That cracked family drawing felt like a mirror of my emotions. My chest tightened. To ease it, I grabbed my secret notebook from under the pillow. I forced my mind to focus on the precise logic of machines, my fingers quickly sketching a carburetor, pouring all my unrest into lines and shading. That night, only the scratch of my pencil on paper kept me company. Before bed, feeling slightly calmer but still wary, I slipped the notebook back into its hiding place.
Mother Finds the Sketches
The next morning, with the room empty as I left for school, Mother came in to tidy the beds as usual. Her eyes caught the drawing on my desk—Sari's cracked family. She sighed deeply, sadness radiating from her face. As she adjusted my pillow, her hand felt an unusual lump. Driven by the worry sparked by Sari's drawing, she pulled out the hidden notebook.
Carefully, she opened it. The pages weren't filled with school notes but dozens of detailed machine sketches. Between the drawings were short, anguished writings: *"Why must it be the same?"* *"I love the smell of oil, is that a sin?"* Mother closed the notebook gently, her eyes glistening. She now knew this wasn't mere teenage rebellion. It was her son's heart crying out. She returned the notebook exactly where she found it, as if she'd never touched it.
This new understanding armed her for the days ahead, where the frost between me and Father grew thicker. The tension felt like walking on thin ice, waiting for one of us to slip and shatter everything.
And it was Father who finally broke the ice. Not with a shout, but with a cold action days later, far more deadly.
An Ultimatum on the Study Desk
Guilt and anger churned in my chest. The thought of giving in—saying, *Alright, Father, I'll go to the pesantren*—kept tempting me. It felt far easier than risking dragging Mother into this vortex.
That temptation to surrender was crushed, not just by Father but by external pressure on the third day. Walking home from school, my steps heavy, a voice called out. "Rasyid! Wait!"
Pak Didi, my guidance counselor, caught up with me. His usually cheerful face was serious. "This morning, your father called me directly." My heart raced. "He must still have my number from the parent meeting at the start of the semester, when I explained about secondary school options. He… asked very seriously about the prospects of SMK, especially automotive engineering. He sounded… intense, Rasyid. Like he was investigating. Is something wrong?"
I froze. My tongue felt numb. "Just… curious, Pak," I replied weakly.
Pak Didi nodded, his sharp eyes weighing my response. He didn't press further, but his expression shifted from serious to concerned. "Alright," he said finally, his voice softer. "But your father sounded very worried. If you want to discuss this—school choices, or anything else—don't hesitate to come to my office. My door's always open."
He patted my shoulder lightly before leaving, leaving me with a mix of feelings: cornered by Father's actions, yet touched by a glimpse of a newly opened door.
I entered the house with a heavy heart, slipping into my room to hide. But as I opened the door, my heart leaped to my throat.
On my study desk, dead center, lay a large, thick, official brown envelope. A wordless message, but its meaning was clearer than sunlight: *FROM FATHER*.
My hands trembled as I reached for it. Inside were glossy, high-quality papers. A brochure for Al-Izzah Modern Islamic Boarding School in East Java. Photos filled the pages: young santri in pristine white uniforms, smiling happily at the camera with unwavering certainty. To me, their smiles looked empty, like masks for a photoshoot. They all looked the same, uniform, with no room to be different. A three-story dormitory. Air-conditioned classrooms. A language lab. Everything so orderly, so sterile, so *right*. Images of perfection in a gilded prison.
And so suffocating.
In the last page was a registration form. In the top right corner, circled in bold, almost piercing red marker, was a short, deadly sentence: *REGISTRATION DEADLINE: NEXT MONTH*. And what nearly made me faint: in the "Prospective Santri Name" field, in Father's firm, unyielding handwriting, written in thick black ink: *MUHAMMAD RASYID BIN AHMAD SUDIRMAN*.
The ultimatum had morphed from heated words into a tangible, cold threat. The ticking time bomb I'd only faintly heard before now sat on my desk, real, its ticking growing louder. I collapsed into my chair. The narrow walls of my room seemed to close in. The smell of the fresh brochure invaded the space, replacing the familiar scent of old books and my dreams. I was trapped.
An Ally in the Night
That night, sleep betrayed my anxiety. I needed an ally. With steps as quiet as a thief's, I opened my bedroom door. In the dimly lit living room, I found Mother. She sat alone, surrounded by neatly folded stacks of clothes.
"Not asleep yet, dear?" her voice was hoarse.
I sank to the floor beside her, holding out the papers. "Bu… Father's really serious, isn't he? This… my name's already written on the form." My voice trembled. "And that's not all, Bu. At school today… Pak Didi said Father called. He called the school! He's… investigating SMK, Bu. He's looking for its flaws. He wants to close all my paths."
Mother's face, already weary, paled. Her eyes widened slightly, a small reaction revealing real shock and fear. She was used to her husband's stubbornness, but calling the school was a new escalation. She knew this was no longer just a debate. It was a war.
Mother sighed heavily, burdened. "Yid… your father… he just wants the best for you. He's afraid… afraid you'll struggle like he does." She looked at me, her eyes glistening.
"But this isn't the best for Rasyid, Bu," I replied, tears burning at the edges of my eyes. "I don't want to be like those pictures. It feels fake. I love machines, Bu. I love the sound when they first start. Like Father in the workshop. Why isn't being an honest mechanic like Father good enough?"
Mother looked at me deeply. I saw the battle in her eyes, torn between loyalty to her husband and love for her son. She took both my hands, holding them tightly.
"I'm your mother, dear. I can see when your smile is real and when it's just a mask. Your truest smile only comes out in one place: the workshop, when your hands are covered in oil."
She paused, stroking my head. "It's so different from when you come back from the surau. Your eyes… they're weary. Like a bird in a cage longing for the sky."
Her words took my breath away. She knew. Without ever seeing my notebook, without my ever confessing, she could read me like an open book. Somehow, she knew.
"When you come back from recitation," she continued, "your eyes… they're weary. Like a bird in a cage."
She took a deep breath. "Your father's hurting. Hurting because he feels his hopes are crumbling. He feels he's failed. And he's afraid." She emphasized, "Talk to him again. But wait for the right time. When his heart's calmer. Explain what you feel. I'll be by your side. But you have to be brave and speak. Honestly. Not just a whisper."
There was no guarantee of victory that night. But for the first time since that cracked morning, the air I breathed had a small gap for breathing. I had an ally.
I returned to my room. On the desk, the cold pesantren brochure lay on one side. On the other, hidden under the mattress, was my notebook full of piston and gear sketches. Two worlds. Two paths. And I, caught at the crossroads, had to choose before the ticking bomb called *Next Month* exploded, destroying one world—or perhaps, destroying me. The cracked air in the house still hung, awaiting the next storm. Mother's support was a shield for my heart, but not an answer for my mind. The questions in my head still echoed alone, and I suspected they'd ring loudest even in the holiest of places.
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