Ever since the night of the slap, an invisible, impenetrable wall had risen between Firman and Rizka. Their tiny six-by-six-meter wooden house suddenly felt far more cramped, yet the gulf separating them stretched as wide as an ocean.

For eight-year-old Firman, mornings were always the most nerve-wracking time of day. He learned to wake up extra early, fold his threadbare blanket with its worn-out holes, and sit quietly in the corner of the kitchen. He made sure never to stand in Sister Rizka’s path as she prepared for work.

That morning, the savory aroma of sautéed water spinach and salted fish cooked by Grandma filled the tiny kitchen. Firman sat on a small wooden stool, staring at Rizka’s back as she buttoned the cuffs of her faded work blouse.

"Sister Rizka... I made you some warm tea," Firman squeaked softly.

His small hands pushed a glass mug filled with sweet, warm tea across the table. Firman hoped that this humble cup might thaw the iceberg around her heart. He wanted to prove that he was a good child, an obedient child—not the burden she had screamed about that night.

Rizka darted a cold glance at the glass. Her expression was completely blank, as frigid as polar ice. Without saying a word, she slid the glass away, causing a few droplets of warm tea to splash onto the wooden table. Then she grabbed her peeling faux-leather shoulder bag.

"Mother, I'm heading out. Don't forget to take your medicine," Rizka called out to Grandmother Sumarni, who was washing dishes at the sink.

She did not look at Firman even once. The little boy sitting at the corner of the dining table might as well have been made of thin air.

"Rizka, at least drink your tea first. Firman woke up early just to make it for you," Grandmother Sumarni chided in her raspy voice, pausing her work for a moment.

Rizka froze at the kitchen doorway, her shoulders tense. Without turning around, she replied curtly, "I didn't ask him to. Don't let him pry into my business, Mother."

TAP. TAP. TAP.

The click of her shoes faded down the path, followed by the heavy thud of the front door slamming shut. The warm tea on the table slowly cooled, much like the sudden tightness pressing down on Firman's chest.

"Grandma... does my tea taste bad?" Firman asked, his voice trembling. His round eyes stayed fixed on the puddle of spilled tea.

Grandmother Sumarni let out a long sigh. She walked over and gently stroked Firman's head. "No, sweetheart. Your tea is wonderful. Your sister is just in a hurry. Finish your breakfast and get ready for school, alright?"

Firman nodded in silent resignation. But deep down, he knew Grandma was only trying to comfort him. Sister Rizka wasn't in a rush. Sister Rizka simply hated him.

Physical rejection was the most painful kind of torture for a boy Firman’s age. He often watched his classmates at school. When the final bell rang, their mothers would meet them with bright smiles, crouch down to eye level, and wrap them in warm hugs while wiping sweat from their foreheads with tissues or the edges of their scarves.

Firman ached for a touch like that—a warm, unconditional embrace.

One afternoon, a heavy downpour drenched their village. Firman, who had no umbrella on his walk home from school, arrived soaked to the skin, shivering uncontrollably with hunger. In the living room, Rizka was sitting on the floor, ironing clothes for her laundry clients.

Seeing her, a desperate craving for affection surged inside Firman's chest. Trembling, his teeth chattering from the cold, he took a step toward her.

"Sister... I'm so cold..." Firman whimpered, reaching out for the hem of her clothes, praying she might panic, grab a towel, or at least rub his bare arms to warm him up.

Instead, Rizka’s reaction shattered what was left of his heart.

The moment Firman’s wet hand touched her blouse, Rizka recoiled violently, drawing her body away as if she had just been touched by something filthy or contagious.

"Get away from me! Look, you got my clothes wet! The iron could short-circuit if water touches it!" Rizka snapped, glaring viciously at his small hand hovering in midair. "Go wash up! Stop being such a miserable nuisance to everyone!"

Firman froze. His small hand slowly fell back to his side, clutching his drenched school uniform. The rain dripping from his dark hair mixed with the hot tears spilling down his cheeks.

No embrace. No warm towel. Only a glare of pure disgust.

"I'm sorry, Sister..." Firman whispered hoarsely.

He turned around and dragged his feet toward the bathroom. Inside the cramped space, under the freezing pour of the well water, Firman broke down and wept bitterly. He clapped both hands over his mouth to stifle his sobs, terrified the sound would leak out.

Why? Why does Sister Rizka hate touching me so much? Am I really that disgusting to her? The questions spun endlessly inside his head, chipping away at his self-worth day after day.

As months turned to years, Firman learned to keep his distance. He stopped making her tea, stopped trying to greet her when she returned home, and stopped looking her in the eye. He turned himself into a ghost within his own home.

If Rizka was in the living room, Firman hid in the bedroom or helped Grandma in the kitchen. If Rizka was eating at the table, Firman carried his plate to the floor by the back door.

Rizka’s cruelty wasn't limited to cold rejections; it cut through sharp, biting words. Every time Grandma used a bit of her small pension money to buy Firman a new notebook or a pair of school shoes, Rizka showered them with venom.

"Wasting money on a kid with no real future," Rizka sneered one evening during dinner. "That money should be going toward fixing the leaky roof."

Grandmother Sumarni set her spoon down with a loud clatter. "Rizka! Mind your tongue! Firman is our responsibility!"

"Your responsibility, Mother, not mine!" Rizka retorted bitterly, throwing a disdainful look at Firman. "He’s going to be a burden on this house forever."

Firman, who was mid-chew, felt the food in his mouth instantly turn to ash. It felt impossible to swallow. He lowered his head as low as he could, hiding his brimmed eyes. He forced himself to finish his food quickly and left the room before his tears could drop onto his plate.

Late that night, through the thin wooden partition of his room, Firman heard Sister Rizka crying in her bedroom again, cursing her cruel fate and her ruined past. Firman pulled his knees tightly to his chest on his hard floor mattress.

At such a young age, Firman came to understand one undeniable truth: To the woman listed as his "Sister" on the legal registry—the woman who was actually his biological mother—his very existence was a mistake, a curse, and a stain she desperately wished to erase.

And the icy coldness of her heart slowly began to freeze a part of Firman’s own, planting a quiet resolve that would one day change the course of his entire life.