"Why would you even go that far just to play with them?" Mom tried to calm me down with a question that only made me more restless.
That day felt like so many I had lived before—ending in tears after being scolded by my father just because I played with boys my age.
My father gave me a girl's name, hoping I would grow up to be gentle, graceful, polite, and possess all the ideal qualities of a daughter.
Perhaps he never imagined that the prayer he tucked into my name would hold no power—because the bearer of that name was me.
My father was born into a traditional Sumatran family, where rules flow like blood, especially for daughters.
And the one thing I've hated most in this world has always been rules.
I don't remember exactly when I started hating them. But those rules constantly restricted my movements.
When I was a child, many things ended in tears—tears that slowly shaped my resentment toward my own childhood.
One day I came home from school feeling exhausted. The house was full of guests—my father's relatives from the village.
He told me to greet them one by one, kiss their hands in respect. I can't recall how many there were, but I remember the ache in my back from bowing down and the bitter smell of tobacco on their hands.
All I wanted after that was to lie down, even for a moment. But that remained a mere dream.
In my father's family, it's unthinkable to let guests leave before being served a full meal—not just the snacks on the table, but a real feast.
Which meant one thing: I had to help Mom prepare food in the kitchen.
"I'm tired, Mom. I just want to rest," I muttered while helping her peel vegetables.
"Just peel these while sitting, dear. I'll take care of the rest," she coaxed gently, leading me to a corner of the kitchen.
I wasn't Mom and Dad's only child.
My older brother was lounging in the living room, glued to the TV.
My younger brother was outside, deep in a marble match with neighborhood kids.
They had been home longer than I had, breathing easy all this time, while I stood peeling and stirring.
Not because they were inconsiderate, but because Dad forbade my brother from helping Mom in the kitchen if I was around.
"That's not a boy's job," he always said.
Who decided to assign gender to tasks, anyway?
Sometimes I wanted to scream. Sometimes I wanted to run to my best friend Anya's house and collapse onto her bed, even if only for a minute.
But Mom's eyes were sharp—watching me closely, afraid I'd do something "strange," which, in her world, meant anything outside the line.
In moments like these, she stayed alert—trying her best to prevent one of Dad's outbursts from landing on me.
Sometimes she succeeded. Other times, she failed.
And when she did, Dad would explode and I'd end up in tears, letting everything out.
Mom became my shield—though sometimes, even shields break.
⸻
"You're not coming home this holiday?"
Mom's voice over the phone was soft, nearly breaking.
It had been a long time since I left home to study in another city, choosing to live independently without relying on the money Dad used to send me every month.
Instead of asking for tuition fees, I took on any work that paid: crewing events organized by a friend's EO, helping out photographers, even dressing up as a clown—anything that paid and didn't interfere with my studies.
Not because Dad couldn't afford it—but because I didn't want to take anything more from him.
It was my way of resisting. My silent rebellion. My proof.
When I graduated high school with decent grades, my brother and mother were beaming.
Even my father, despite his silence, wore an undeniable look of pride.
But that expression vanished when I said I wanted to apply to the university I'm in now.
"No. Absolutely not. Girls shouldn't live far from home. You still have a father and a brother. You're only allowed to leave when another man takes you into his family," he said firmly.
"But Dad, the program I want is really good there," I protested weakly.
But I knew—no matter how sound my reasons were, his answer would remain the same: No.
I was crushed. I almost gave up.
Until one night, I woke up from a dream that felt like a punch to the heart. Every word of rejection from my father echoed and pierced deeper into the wounds I'd carried for years.
Without realizing, I cried. Loud enough, perhaps, for my brother next door to hear.
He knocked gently, opened the door, and called my name.
I said nothing.
But he understood.
He hugged me tightly—and his whispered words gave me the strength to fight.
I applied to university in secret.
Every document that needed a signature had already been signed—by my brother.
Only he and I knew.
When the announcement came and my name was listed, I finally told my parents—hoping that the reality of my acceptance would soften my father's heart.
But I was wrong.
Dad still refused.
He said he wouldn't pay a single cent if I insisted on going.
Luckily, I had some savings.
With help from my brother, who had started earning, and some secret money from Mom, I finally left.
I moved to a new city, chasing a future I refused to abandon.
The city felt unfamiliar.
I had to adapt to everything—language, culture, people.
But somehow, all those struggles didn't scare me.
After all, I had already survived so much.
I was alive.
Truly alive.
Back then, living at home was easier—food, electricity, internet, all provided.
But I never felt truly alive.
Now, even though every little thing I wanted came at a price—sometimes sweat, sometimes blood—I finally feel it.
This life, this choice, this freedom… they make me feel whole.
And maybe, just maybe, they've made me grow up faster than the rest.