2016 was the year filled with the most hope for me. My name is Zaitun, a village girl from the remote parts of East Java, who decided to move to Sidoarjo to study at a private university. Like many other young people, I came with a mind too influenced by soap operas—imagining city students as groups of smooth-skinned, fragrant, stylish, and of course… wealthy kids.
My daily life was quite hectic. From morning to evening, I worked at a contracting company, then studied at night. Luckily, I stayed at the company’s dorm in Surabaya—a two-story house in an upscale residential complex, guarded by several security posts. I lived upstairs, alone. My office was on the lower floor.
In my first semester, I joined a project group with several classmates, including Sarif—a sociable, talkative guy—who at the time was dating a girl named Yasmine.
Yasmine stood out in class. Her appearance was trendy, her accent refined, and the way she spoke carried an “upper-class” vibe. One day, when our group gathered at the dorm to work on assignments, Sarif casually remarked while enjoying some snacks,
“Hey, Yasmine’s house looks like this too, you know. In an elite neighborhood. But she only lives with her maid, since her parents are busy and often abroad.”
I just nodded, pretending to be impressed.
“Wow… must be nice, huh,” I said briefly. Deep down, I felt even smaller. I thought my suspicions were right—I was the poor kid stepping into the world of the rich.
Days went by. Then came shocking news: Yasmine’s father had passed away. Our classmates quickly organized a fundraiser. But something strange didn’t go unnoticed—not a single one of Yasmine’s close friends visited her house. In fact, they seemed clueless about where she lived.
At the time, we thought they were being insensitive. But the truth was… they really didn’t know where Yasmine lived. Every time someone planned to visit, she always had an excuse:
“Getting into my neighborhood is such a hassle—you have to leave your ID at the gate, then swap it for an access card, and all that.”
In the end, none of us ever actually saw what Yasmine’s house looked like. But since we cared, the donation was still collected and somehow made its way into her hands.
Yasmine was often seen hanging out with friends from the “upper class.” Sometimes she was picked up in luxury cars, sometimes she traveled out of town by train with them. She always asked to be picked up at the mosque near her house—again, because of the “complicated procedures” to enter her complex.
On social media, her life looked like a reality show star’s: salon visits, skincare shopping, gym sessions, pretty brunches at trendy cafés, even going live while trying expensive food. All of us, though we didn’t admit it openly, felt jealous too.
Until everything changed on Mother’s Day.
Like other students, Yasmine posted a picture of her “mother”—a beautiful woman with a branded bag, the epitome of a socialite. But a few days later, Yasmine’s close friend, Cessa, got a new follower notification on Instagram. Out of curiosity, she checked the profile.
It turned out the account displayed pictures of a simple family: a father, a mother in a headscarf, and two daughters. And… one of them was clearly Yasmine. But the photo had been uploaded a few days after her father had supposedly “passed away.” Which meant?
A lie.
The woman she called her “mother” in the story was actually her aunt—a wealthy woman who was sometimes close to her. Meanwhile, her real mother—the one in the simple family photos—was far from a glamorous socialite figure.
The news spread among us. Yet none of us dared to expose the charade in front of Yasmine. Maybe out of pity, or maybe because we wanted to see how far this story would go.
And so we watched, in silence, the performance of a girl living in her own world of illusion—and we, her loyal audience.
(To be continued in Part 2)
Photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash
