That year, I had just turned nine. Our house, which was usually quiet, suddenly felt more alive with the arrival of our eldest Tulang. He came from the village carrying a big dream: to finish his economics degree.
Our home became a silent witness to how hard he studied among stacks of macroeconomics books. Finally, the long-awaited day arrived. Tulang officially earned his Bachelor of Economics degree. But the working world was not as easy as turning the palm of a hand. As a first step, he worked for a pharmaceutical company as a medical sales representative.
Every morning, I watched him ride Father's Vespa proudly. The distinctive hum of the engine signaled that the workday had begun.
The moment we waited for most was the afternoon. When the Vespa engine stopped in front of our gate, it was our code for happiness. Tulang would come home with a wide smile and take us out to look for afternoon snacks.
"Come on, let's find ombus-ombus or fried snacks!" he would shout.
Behind that cheerfulness, there was a unique bond between Tulang and my younger brother, Nugrah. Though still little, Nugrah was wise and quick—what people would call clever and sharp. Tulang often teased him, asking him to polish his work shoes or Father's shoes. Strangely, Nugrah did it happily and carefully, as if he already understood the meaning of devotion at a young age.
Nugrah's quickness once nearly stopped Mother's heart. One day, he disappeared from home. We later found out he had walked alone all the way to my kindergarten at Parulian School! It was quite far for a toddler, yet he remembered the way amazingly well. Thankfully, a neighbor spotted him on the road and brought him home.
"Nugrah wanted to pick up big brother," he said innocently, while Mother was already on the verge of tears from worry.
Behind the afternoon laughter, I often saw Tulang lost in thought. He had been in a long relationship with Nantulang—his own pariban. They loved each other deeply, but a massive wall stood between them: insecurity.
Nantulang's family was well-off, while Tulang felt he was "only" a pharmaceutical salesman. There were dark moments when he felt the world was no longer worth living in. He felt small before the woman he loved. Despair slowly consumed his spirit.
Seeing this, Mother could not stay silent. One night, she whispered to Father, "Our Tulang is about to give up. We must help him."
Father was a firm man with wide connections. Coincidentally, he had a strong relationship with someone who headed a state-owned printing company in Jakarta. Without delay, Father took action.
He wrote a letter—a letter carrying new hope. "Go to Jakarta. Meet this person. Give him this letter," Father told Tulang firmly.
With the remaining strength he had, Tulang left for the capital. There, a miracle happened. Father's connection received him warmly, and Tulang was immediately accepted into the state-owned company.
The news from Jakarta felt like cool water in the desert. Tulang no longer felt inferior. With a stable job in a government company, he returned with his head held high. No one underestimated him anymore. Not long after, a grand wedding was held. Tulang finally married Nantulang, the pariban he had fought for in prayers and tears.
Father's Vespa may now be old, but every time I see it, I am reminded that success often requires two things: hard work and sincere support from a family that never gives up on us.
After their marriage, Tulang and Nantulang began a new life far from Jakarta's bustle. They moved to Ambon—the "City of Manise." There, their happiness was completed with the birth of their first child, whom I called Lae, named Aldo. Photos of Aldo sent home often became Mother's only comfort amid the storm beginning to rage in our own house.
Our home in Medan remained a shelter for Mother's other siblings. My third Tulang stayed with us for quite some time, working hard as a fish seller in the market. Every afternoon, he returned with leftover anchovies he planned to sell again the next day.
But behind our door, a dark secret began to unfold.
Father, who should have been the pillar of the family as a civil servant, was instead tearing down his own home. Secretly, without Mother's knowledge, he had fallen into gambling. His monthly salary disappeared at gambling tables, leaving us in real poverty.
One day, our kitchen was completely empty. There was not a single coin to buy rice or side dishes. Broken and desperate, Mother took some of the leftover anchovies from Tulang's stock to cook so we could eat. When Tulang returned and saw his goods reduced, he felt upset. He did not know that behind those missing fish lay the wounded dignity of a mother fighting to keep her children alive.
Peace never returned to our house. Every corner felt heated by endless arguments. Father became more reckless; household items vanished one by one. Plates, the fan, even Tulang's beloved typewriter were sold for gambling money.
One afternoon, while Tulang was sick and resting in the back room, chaos erupted. Mother's cries and Father's shouting filled the air. Unable to bear it any longer, Tulang staggered out, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, his eyes burning red.
"Enough! Stop hurting my sister!" he shouted.
Father fell silent instantly.
But for us children who witnessed it, the world collapsed. The place that should have been safest had turned into a battlefield.
We lived in constant fear. Every time Father came home, we never knew whether he brought bread—or came to take another item to sell.
Sometimes the greatest enemy does not come from outside, but from the person who should love you the most.
Yet outside that gate, school became my sanctuary. There were no gambling tables there, no debt collectors, no hidden tears behind kitchen smoke.
Deep in my heart, I made a promise:
"I must succeed. I must bring Mother out of this suffering."
In second grade, on report card day, my heart pounded as the principal announced the top students.
"Second place overall…"
My name was called.
I walked forward in a uniform that might not have been as new as others', but with my head held high. I received a plastic bag filled with notebooks and stationery. It felt more valuable than gold. While Father sold our belongings, school was giving me tools to build my future.
I came home proudly, wanting to show Mother that amid our darkness, a candle had begun to shine.
My achievements were no coincidence. I turned pain into fuel. When arguments echoed at night, I buried my face in my textbooks. If Father sold Tulang's typewriter, I guarded my pencil carefully.
From third to fifth grade, my name consistently appeared among the top students. I was known as quiet but sharp-minded. My teachers may not have known what happened behind my front door, but they knew I was a fighter in the classroom.
Finally, sixth grade arrived. Graduation loomed ahead. The burden on my shoulders felt heavier, knowing greater challenges awaited.
But looking at the modest trophies and certificates I had collected over six years, I understood one thing:
Poverty and a broken home might steal my childhood, but they could never steal my intelligence.
I graduated with my head held high, ready to face the next storm—determined that one day I would repay all of Mother's tears with success.