Three months had passed since that dreadful night, and the atmosphere inside the wooden house had grown even colder. Firman, who had transformed into a intensely quiet child, no longer asked for anything. He never asked about his "mother," never looked Rizka in the eye, and always made sure to keep himself completely out of sight whenever she was around.

Yet the true storm had not fully passed. Human ego is often far crueler than poverty itself.

It was a bright Sunday morning, but inside the house, there was no warmth to be found. Firman was in the backyard, scrubbing his yellowing school shirts by hand. From the living room, the distinct scrape of an old suitcase dragging across the floorboards drifted out, accompanied by the overpowering scent of cheap perfume—a smell entirely foreign to their home.

Firman set his brush aside. Barefoot, he crept softly toward the kitchen doorway and peeked into the front room.

Rizka stood near the table dressed in her absolute best—a brand-new floral sundress. Beside her feet stood a large, maroon cloth suitcase, bursting at the seams with her belongings. Grandmother Sumarni sat on the wooden chair, staring at the suitcase with trembling hands, her face looking ten years older.

"Rizka... how can you truly be this heartless?" Grandmother’s voice broke, shaking as she fought back tears.

Rizka let out a long sigh, tightening her grip on her shoulder bag strap. "Mother, this is my last chance at a normal life. Mas Heru is a good man—he owns a grocery shop in the next town over. He accepts me for who I am, Mother. He wants to marry me."

"Accepts you for who you are?" Grandmother Sumarni stood up, leaning heavily on the table as her eyes widened. "And what about Firman?! Does your fiancé know about him?!"

At the mention of Firman’s name, Rizka’s expression instantly hardened. Panic and terror flickered across her eyes.

"Of course not, Mother! And he can never find out!" Rizka snapped in a hushed, sharp whisper. "Mas Heru comes from a respected family in his town. They're extremely conservative. If they find out I already have a nine-year-old child out of wedlock, the wedding is off! My life will be ruined for the second time!"

Behind the kitchen door frame, Firman gripped his faded t-shirt tight. His chest felt as though it had been struck with a sledgehammer. He already knew the truth, but hearing himself called a "life-ruiner" directly from his biological mother's mouth still carved a fresh, agonizing wound in his heart.

"Rizka, Firman is your child! He has every right to be with his mother!" Grandmother Sumarni broke down, stepping forward to clasp Rizka's arm in desperation. "I'm old and sickly. What happens when I'm no longer here? Who will take care of him?"

Rizka brushed her mother’s hand away gently, yet firmly. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at her mother's tears.

"Weren't you the one who insisted on keeping him back then? You're the one who put his name on the Family Registry as your child, not mine. So legally and in the eyes of the public, he is your responsibility. He is my brother, not my son!" Rizka declared, callously tossing the burden back onto the old woman.

She adjusted her bag and delivered the final blow—a sentence that extinguished whatever lingering hope remained in Firman's young heart.

"He is a black mark on my life, Mother. Bringing Firman with me means dragging the shame of my past into my new marriage. I want a fresh start. I want to be a respectable woman and leave all my past mistakes behind. Please, Mother... just let me leave in peace. Call me selfish if you want, but I deserve to be happy too."

Grandmother Sumarni stumbled backward, unable to process how the daughter she raised could grow so heartless for her own selfish desires.

At that exact moment, Firman stepped out from behind the kitchen door.

The sound of his footsteps caused both women to turn reflexively. Rizka flinched when her eyes met his, but she quickly masked her shock behind a wall of cold indifference, assuming the nine-year-old was too young to understand what was being said.

Firman didn't cry. His round eyes were dry and vacant. He stared at Rizka—not as a son looking at a mother about to abandon him, but as a total stranger looking at another stranger.

"Grandma..." Firman called, his voice flat and devoid of all emotion. "Let Sister Rizka go."

Grandmother Sumarni froze, looking at Firman with deep, agonizing sorrow. "Firman... you..."

Firman walked up to his grandmother, took her wrinkled hand in his, and looked at Rizka one last time.

"I hope you find happiness out there, Sister Rizka. Don't worry about me. I will never come looking for you, and I will never ruin your new happiness."

Hearing such a cutting, mature statement from a boy so small, a sharp pang pinched the corner of Rizka’s heart. Guilt briefly flared in her chest—his words were far too mature, far too cold for a child his age. But her ego, paired with her paralyzing fear of poverty and public shame, far outweighed her conscience.

She turned her face away, grabbed the suitcase handle roughly, and walked out the front door without a single glance back or a word of farewell for Firman.

BANG.

The front door slammed shut, followed by the roar of a car engine waiting at the end of the alley.

Rizka was gone. She had chosen a selfish path, burying her own flesh and blood into a sealed drawer of the past all for a new status in the eyes of the world.

Inside the house, Grandmother Sumarni sank to the floor, weeping uncontrollably as she pulled her knees to her chest. Meanwhile, Firman remained standing tall in the middle of the silent room. A single tear finally slipped down his cheek, but he wiped it away with a harsh stroke.

That day, Firman didn't just lose a mother who had never acknowledged him in the first place. That day, Firman made a quiet vow to himself: one day, he would prove to the woman who abandoned him that the "shameful mistake" she left behind would grow into someone far beyond her reach.