Ten years ago, life in our small village changed unexpectedly. At that time, Father and Mother brought home a little girl from the forest, after hearing news about two children who lived with their grandmother, surviving on wild taro and cassava. That child’s name was Alya.
Alya’s biological parents had divorced. Their lives scattered apart, like an old cloth torn at many corners. Her older brother chose to stay in the forest to care for their grandmother, while Alya accepted the helping hand of Father and Mother. We, their biological children, were confused and even disagreed at first. But Father said, “She needs a home. Your mother needs a companion. Let her be our child.”
Eventually, Alya was added into our Family Registry. No birth certificate, no date of birth. Everything was guessed based on her size and height. But from the start, Alya showed something immeasurable: spirit. She was diligent, sweet, and quick to bond. Over time, we began to see her as our own sister.
Alya shone in school. She graduated elementary with good grades and entered junior high. Her school was far from the village, but Father never missed a day taking and picking her up—sometimes even waiting at a coffee stall from morning until noon. Whatever she needed for school, Father and Mother provided. Our hopes were high: one day, Alya would be someone successful, breaking the chain of misery that life had handed down.
I even vowed to send her to college if she finished high school.
But life is never a linear story.
At 13, puberty came like a storm. A 24-year-old man from our village—polite, well-regarded—began often escorting Alya. He called our father Oppung—by custom, Alya was his Namboru, his aunt. We suspected nothing. Yet good intentions can slide the wrong way if left unwatched.
A few months later, villagers caught the two of them—drunk in passion, naked in a garden hut. The whole village erupted. A customary hearing was held. Father and Mother firmly rejected the man’s request to marry Alya. She was still a child. But customary law said otherwise.
We tried to save Alya. We planned to transfer her school to Medan. She agreed. We were all relieved.
But that hope shattered on the morning of her promotion exam. Father dropped Alya off as usual, but by 11, she never appeared at the school gate. Her teacher said: “Alya didn’t come today.”
Father was struck like lightning. Alya had vanished.
Two days later, word came. Alya and the man were in another village. Father and Mother traveled far, two hours by motorbike through rain and mud. They found Alya. Brought her home—cold, silent, and stubborn.
“Do you still want to go to school?” Father asked.
“I just want to get married,” she answered, softly but firmly.
A second hearing was held. The man’s family surrendered responsibility. Alya’s biological family, instead, demanded five million in compensation. We no longer knew which way to turn—everything was tangled. Father lost. Mother yielded. Alya married.
Seven months later, she gave birth to her first child. Then a second, just this January.
Now, Alya is 16 years old. Her life is not easy. Her husband is buried in debt. Debt to the midwife, to the cooperative, to the rice shop, to loan sharks. Their harvest brings little. Their spending runs wild. Alya, still a child, is forced to be a grown woman, a mother.
Sometimes, when Mother hangs laundry, she finds it already taken down and placed in a bucket by Alya. Alya says nothing. Silent, but her care remains. Through others, she sends greetings. But the wound is already too deep. Father and Mother can only sit quietly, staring at the evening sky from the veranda.
Father feels he has failed. He once thought he could redeem the love he hadn’t given us in childhood—through Alya. But life’s path cannot always be designed like a building.
Sometimes we whisper to Father and Mother:
“Do not regret. You tried. You gave love and education. Many things in this world are beyond our control.”
Alya is no longer just a name. She is a wound. She is also a lesson. She is also a memory.
Yet behind it all, she is still human. And like every human being, she can still change.
