I hadn’t heard from my dad since I was five.
After he and Mom split, Mom left for Europe, and I never knew where he was — whether he was alive, well, or gone forever.
Until one day.
A BBM notification popped up on my phone.
Yes, it was still the BBM era back then.
A message appeared:
“Sweetheart, this is Dad. I’m sorry…”
My heart skipped a beat.
I stared at the screen for a long time before typing a reply.
Dad… after all these years?
He told me stories — about his work, where he lived, and even that I had a half-sibling I never knew about. He also said that my grandmother on his side had passed away a few months ago.
Strangely, I didn’t feel angry.
I didn’t hate him.
All I felt was curiosity — what it would be like to have a dad in my life.
We kept chatting on BBM.
And then, for the first time ever, he sent me money.
Five hundred thousand rupiah.
He called it “holiday money.”
I was still in high school at the time, and I was thrilled. Tomorrow was Eid, and I already had a plan: I would get my hair rebonded. I wanted it silky straight, like the girls I saw in teen magazines.
Coincidentally, Mom was back in Indonesia. We stayed under the same roof for two weeks — me, Mom, her husband, my grandma, and my aunt.
That evening, I went to the salon.
I left at 7 p.m., but the salon was packed, so I only got home around 10.
I hadn’t even parked my motorbike when — BANG!
The garage door flew open.
Mom stood there.
Her face was cold.
“Where have you been? Why are you just coming home now? What happened to your hair?”
I swallowed hard.
“I went to the salon, Mom. I got my hair rebonded… but the place was crowded so it took longer…”
“Where did you get the money?”
“Dad sent it, Mom…”
And then came that look.
The look I can never forget.
Her eyes narrowed, sharp, piercing.
“Oh, so your father’s been sending you money? So that’s it, huh? My job is done? I fed you, raised you through high school — and that’s it? I’m done being your mother?”
Her words hit like a knife.
“Dad only sent 500, Mom… I spent 300 on my hair, there’s still some left. He’s never sent money before — this is the first time…”
My voice trembled.
Mom didn’t reply.
She just turned and went inside, closing her bedroom door.
I stayed sitting on my motorbike.
The garage was dark.
And I cried.
I cried quietly, tears streaming down my face, until I finally gathered myself ten minutes later and went to my room.
That night, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
My hair was perfectly straight, smooth, just like I wanted.
And I hated it.
Not because it looked bad, but because it had become the reason Mom got mad at me again.
Photo by Rafael Garcin on Unsplash
