You’d better not think just because we’re married and middle-aged we’ve stopped fantasizing about other men. That’s what your friends say, and to fit in you laugh casually. But in truth you never fantasize about anyone, including your own husband, nor about sex of any kind—not revenge sex, kinky sex, or casual sex just to feel a warm body and pass the time.

You only think about three things.

One: Money (that you don’t have).

Two: Your only child (who’s already married and lives abroad).

Three: Your body and your brain (both growing more exhausted with every passing day).

Sometimes you think about your friend Dina. On her fiftieth birthday, Dina went all out on a ladies’ night. The guest star was Jojo Sifredi, a male stripper popular among young, rich housewives with too much free time.

“Jojo is extra special,” Dina had said, “because he’s real.”

“Real? What does that even mean?”

“He’s our age, he’s mature, not some stupid hot young guy.”

“Surely not all young hot guys are stupid?”

“And have you ever even been with one?”

You were annoyed because, as usual, she had made you look foolish, probably thinking, how could some uptight introvert like you have ever slept with some young stud? But you’ve got to admit, she’s right, you’ve really never been interested in younger men, and why would they be interested in you anyway? Isn’t what they’re looking for from a woman of your age just money? That, or the sexual expertise supposedly honed from years of copulation? Or, ideally, both money and sexual expertise—neither of which you have to offer.

Meanwhile, every time you think about Dina and her fiftieth birthday party, you remember your own. You celebrated with a slice of chocolate cake and three dozen long-stemmed roses that you bought yourself before dawn at the Rawa Belong Flower Market. While paying, you said to the flower seller, “Look at this, Pak, do I have a great husband or what? He told me to pick out my own flowers, whatever I wanted, however many, so I’d be sure not to hate my birthday gift.”

What was stupid was you told Dina about it.

“Yeah that’s normal, honey,” Dina said. “The older we get the more we have to take care of ourselves.”

You just nodded even though you weren’t sure whether Dina ever “had” to take care of herself. Did she even know how? And what’s more “normal,” really, your situation or Dina’s?

According to your husband the scholar, “normal” is a relatively novel concept. In the early nineteenth century, Belgian mathematician and sociologist Adolphe Quetelet developed his theory of “the average person,” and thus began the social construct: whatever fell outside the “average”—our child’s performance at school, our energy at work, our aptitude in bed—made us feel abnormal and filled us with self-doubt.

You were annoyed with your husband (lately, you’re always annoyed with your husband), so you weren’t willing to acknowledge the truth in what he said. The older you get, the less energy you have for taking bad advice and ignoring good advice, wherever it comes from, and your husband’s input was actually good advice. But you didn’t want to admit it.

You’re also no longer willing to waste your time feeling indebted to anyone or punishing yourself for the wrongs you have (or haven’t) committed. You’re no longer so eager to change the perspective of others or change yourself to make other people happy. As with sex, you don’t want to chase, fill, or urge anyone along. Nor do you wish to be filled, satisfied, or completed by anyone.

In fantasies about men who aren’t your husband—if you were to force them—you wouldn’t imagine what your friends imagine. You wouldn’t be sleeping with some stranger you met in a bar. You wouldn’t be stripped naked and handcuffed to the bed by Jojo Sifredi or some other young beefcakes whose gorgeous chiseled bodies bring tears of joy to your eyes, who last for hours, who know just where to touch you, who make you feel like a queen for the night. Even if you were rich, you wouldn’t squander millions of rupiah on a hot young gigolo or a dance instructor from overseas.

You would imagine something simpler: holding hands in the street, eating dinner in a restaurant, going to Rawa Belong and watching with delight as a man buys flowers and offers them to you. You would imagine the pleasure of talking about aspects of yourself that you haven’t shared with a man in so long—your first trip abroad, your favorite books when you were a teenager, the kind of music that makes your body move—and then feeling his caress on your shoulder.

But that will never happen, because you don’t have the energy for fantasy.

*

A few days later, you get the news from your daughter, Brenda, that she will be visiting from London. You haven’t seen each other in a long time. You and your husband have been living frugally for years; you can’t waste money traveling abroad unless it’s for something crucial. And even though you miss her half to death, you’ve been too proud to ask her to come, so now you are deeply moved. It turns out your child still cares.

Still, you flinch when Brenda announces she will come with Paul, an Englishman of Italian descent. (Whenever she says the word Italian, your daughter’s voice rises a little, as if that fact doubles his value.)

“He’s more than just a boyfriend,” she once told you. “He’s my partner. My life partner.”

“In Indonesia there are only two categories,” you replied. “Pacar atau suami—boyfriend or husband. There’s nothing in the middle. Partner is a professional term. If you introduce him here as your partner, people aren’t going to think oh, that’s the guy you’re shacking up with. They’re going to think you’re in business together.”

“But I don’t live in Indonesia, I live in England,” your daughter said, her voice rising. “And I work here. In England, domestic partnership is a legal bond.”

You sensed a tone of triumph in her voice, but you still kept at it. “In Indonesia, cohabitating is officially a crime,” you said. “And please keep this in mind, Brenda, as long as I’m your mother, you are still Indonesian. What should I say to my friends when they ask me whether I really don’t mind my child and her boyfriend fornicating in my own house?”

But now, since you miss your daughter so desperately, you don’t want to nag. It’s good she even wants to come and stay with you, not at a hotel like other vagabond millennial kids who have lost their roots and their ties to home—though secretly you’re worried it’s because your daughter’s partner is stingy or even worse, poor. Because really, how much could he be making as a community activist?

You decide to wait until your daughter is in Jakarta to give her a piece of your mind. You hope time will give you the wisdom to determine how you feel about your daughter’s partner.

*

You’ve met him only once, in London, when you attended their civil partnership ceremony, which to you was totally absurd: “vowing” to be domestic partners. You didn’t tell a single friend or family member, not even your younger sister Laura, because you couldn’t explain why you didn’t take a firmer position—like your husband, say. Your husband who’s so wise and understanding, because he’s a philosophy professor.

You flew to London alone after fighting with him for weeks. He refused to attend though he did give his blessing. You were disappointed in him because you thought he was being inconsistent: he clearly wasn’t comfortable with that kind of commitment—especially not for his only daughter—but, because he wanted to be seen as a liberal-minded intellectual, he wouldn’t forbid it.

“I’m not you,” your husband had said at that time, “who always cares too much about what people say. I would never sabotage my own child’s happiness to preserve my image in the eyes of the world.”

“May I remind you that from the very beginning, out of the two of us the one with the clear position has been me. Not once in the last three months since that god-awful FaceTime have I pretended to be bighearted and supportive of them, just so I can be seen as some sort of modern, cool parent. But at the end of the day, you’re the one without the courage to practice what you preach.”

“All I said was you care too much about what people say.”

“But ultimately, who’s going to board that plane tomorrow to be by our daughter’s side? It won’t be you, it will be me! Me! Even though I don’t agree with one word of all this bullshit!” Your voice was rising but you didn’t care. “And yet you say I’m willing to sabotage my own child’s happiness for my image. But perhaps it’s no surprise—after all, I’ve always been the primary parent.”

“You know what your problem is, Anna? The problem is you’re actually afraid of Brenda. You don’t realize that you’ve been colonized—by your own child!”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you said.

“And you love playing the martyr.”

*

Three months before you flew to London, your daughter had sent you and your husband a WhatsApp: Mama, Papa, can we FaceTime tomorrow morning Jakarta time? I have some happy news.

Your heart was pounding but as usual you replied with a put-on cheerfulness: Suuuuuure. What time? complete with a cheerful emoji at the end of the sentence—you could almost feel Brenda’s smirk as soon as you hit send.

The next day you and your husband were sitting impatiently in front of your respective laptop screens (you in the front room, your husband in his library) when your only, precious child appeared; someone you knew so well and at the same time didn’t know at all. Her hair was now cut to her shoulders, her accent sounded like English royalty, but she was just as she’d always been, pursing her lips every time she finished saying something serious, as if she wanted to make sure everyone fully understood what she meant.

She no longer appeared alone but with a young man—just as fresh-faced as your own daughter, the same youth who had been introduced through the same screen a few months ago (Ma, this is Paul). A youth whose arm was now wrapped around your daughter somewhat stiffly, seemingly unsure whether it would upset these middle-aged parents from some hamlet in the East.

You almost couldn’t look at his face, let alone search for what exactly in it had made your daughter willing to put her life in his hands, at the same age you had surrendered yours to your husband, twenty-six years ago—with all the burdens and pressures she didn’t have to endure because you’d freed her from them. You knew what you were going to hear, and you didn’t want to hear it. But you couldn’t just switch yourself off.

“Ma, Pa,” your daughter had said in a voice that sounded measuredly polite to you. “Paul and I are going to make our vows.”

You tried to smile, because isn’t that what all children want when they are eager for their parents to let them go? But the pounding of your heart drowned everything else out. You could barely hear your husband jumping in: “Well, well, this is extraordinarily good news! Quite unexpected, but, congratulations!”

You didn’t say anything at first, because you didn’t feel the news was worthy of congratulations, let alone something extraordinary. You weren’t happy, and more than that, you didn’t appreciate how your daughter had seen nothing wrong in making an announcement like that without first asking for your blessing. You had literally bowed down before your parents all those many years ago to beg their permission to marry your husband, who turned out to be nothing but a pretentious coward.

After you found your voice, you asked, “So when is it planned for? When will you two come home?”

“Oh, Ma,” your daughter said carefully, trying to soften her rebuke. “Remember, we’re not getting married. We’re going to make our vows in a persatuan sipil—a civil union.”

“Oh,” you said.

In the following minutes, as your husband droned on, dominating the conversation, you weren’t sure whether you were relieved your daughter wouldn’t be getting married and surrendering her life and her future to this young man you barely knew, or resentful that your child was so far from her own culture (from your culture, from you) that she was desecrating the values and traditions of her ancestors—and didn’t even care! You were also furious with your husband because he was so spineless, so lacking in authority, as if you both still had a colonial mentality and were proud of your new rise in status now that your child had snagged a white man.

When a few weeks later your daughter told you they had set a date for the civil ceremony, you didn’t ask whether she truly thought that not marrying would strengthen their bond, whether she truly believed that their love would be more honest without all the trappings of the institution to weigh it down.

Because, secretly, you were afraid she might be right.

The entire week in London, you were as if sleepwalking, unsure whether the fog before your eyes was a product of the weather or your scrambled brain. Every time you were in the same room with Paul, it was as if a veil immediately unfurled between you. You didn’t know how to act—as an in-law, in-law-ish, or as a friend? You still couldn’t even remember his face, the details of his eyes, nose, and mouth or the color of his hair or skin, even though you had spoken to him numerous times. You only registered how his impressive frame filled the space.

When you sat with his parents—were they family, family-ish, or friends?—in the front row of that stiff and cold room, you wanted to cry. You were all witness to that formal and informal bond, but you didn’t know each other, and you were there alone. You felt like the third wheel. You didn’t know whether your child had really left you of her own accord, whether their child had stolen her from you, or whether it was all just an act. You also wanted to cry when they called you one of the guests, as if giving your daughter away wasn’t your birthright, as if being there alone made you and your identity as her mother also somehow unofficial. But you didn’t shed any tears. You didn’t actually know if you were sad or happy. You didn’t know whether you should feel abandoned or liberated. You had been released from the prison, relieved of the biggest gift of your life: being a mother.

You only finally, truly saw him—your daughter’s partner—when he took a half day off work to drive you to the airport. It was late morning, and your daughter wasn’t there because she couldn’t get away from the office. You’re not sure exactly when the moment came, but you know that when you looked over at him—maybe as he was fiddling with the heater or searching for a song on his playlist—you were struck all of a sudden by how very handsome he was. You could imagine him twenty-five years from now, at your age: his Latin jaw, his lively blue eyes, his wavy black hair gone salt-and-pepper.

Hugging goodbye at immigration, before you went your separate ways, you caught the scent of vetiver and patchouli on his neck, with hints of orange and pine.

In the airplane, on the journey home to Jakarta, you felt like a bird who had just been recaptured and locked back in its cage.

*

When the time comes—when Brenda and Paul arrive at your house, more like guests than family—you’re nervous and cannot meet Paul’s eyes. You keep stealing glances at your husband, afraid he sees the change in your behavior. But you quickly realize your husband wouldn’t give a shit even if you dyed your hair blue and lay down naked beside him, or a gaping hole opened up right at his feet and you disappeared into the abyss forever. Something about his ongoing sanctimony makes you want to appear modern and egalitarian, so when your driver asks where he should put Miss Brenda’s suitcases, you answer, don’t bother, don’t bother, they can take them to the room themselves. You know your daughter considers live-in household help a form of outdated feudalism that should be eradicated, and as soon as your driver leaves the room, you whisper to your daughter, okay, you two, you’ll sleep in the guest room, alright?

That night, when your husband and child are chatting in the sitting room, you embolden yourself to join your daughter’s partner, who is smoking on the terrace. Paul still calls you Anna, not Tante, or Mrs. Effendi. You try to make small talk, and you two briefly exchange banalities: the airplane food, his impressions of Jakarta traffic, his deeply fulfilling, idealistic work. You keep yourself from asking, so, how much do you make a month? You’re sure he can sense the bizarre awkwardness of the situation, but you catch that scent whenever he leans forward, patchouli and vetiver and something foreign yet familiar—maybe it’s his sweat rising in the heat, mingling with the tropical humidity—and it makes your heart go wobbly.

Suddenly, your hand clutches a tissue that you find in your pants pocket. You approach and wipe the perspiration from his neck.

“I’m afraid it’s true what they say, Jakarta really is quite hot.” You feel him shift sideways just a bit, but you don’t move away. “And humid.”

Even though you can tell he was a little startled, once you step back and the moment has passed he doesn’t look too embarrassed. He just smiles and says, “Sure.”

Meanwhile, you’re internally rationalizing your behavior. Listen, Anna. You’re his mother-in-law. In the cosmology of male-female relationships, you absolutely have the right to wipe away his sweat. Don’t be so small-minded.

You two last on the terrace five more minutes, drawing out your small talk. As you chat about the must-see tourist spots, you sense an intimacy in his gaze.

Then, in the middle of the night, you cross paths again in the kitchen, without meaning to. The house is still.

“Hi,” you say. Your voice sounds odd—high-pitched, almost shrill.

“Hi, Anna,” he says. Your own name sounds strange in your ears. Only your husband and close friends call you that.

“What do you need, Paul?”

“I’m thirsty. I was just going to get some water . . .”

“Oh, didn’t I put a jug of water in your room?”

“Yes, but it’s already empty.”

For a moment you stand face-to-face, as if fate had brought you together. In the dim glow emanating from the water dispenser, you see the gentle movement of his taut stomach underneath his white T-shirt, rising and falling with his breath. You can’t speak. You let him fill his glass without interruption.

There’s a rustle and a lizard jumps out from behind the trash can. You’re both startled: the youth because he’s spent his whole life in a temperate climate and is not used to seeing reptiles inside the house, you because out of nowhere you’re like a woman possessed by the devil.

Paul clears his throat.

“Good night, Anna,” he says, then starts to walk back toward his room, where your daughter is waiting, maybe full of anticipation, maybe without any clothes on. Your heart starts pounding again, but this time with a pain that stabs into your gut. You don’t know what you’re thinking, but those two words, good night, sound so gentle and so loving, and out of some madness, you grab his arm to hold him there. Then you lean into him, your kiss landing on the left corner of his mouth.

For a moment, you both freeze. Panic courses like an electric shock through your whole body up to the crown of your head.

“Sorry,” you gulp, though there’s no need to apologize for a kiss goodnight, you should just laugh because it missed the mark—ha ha, it happens. Your daughter has often told you that if you make a mistake you have to just own it, and people will forgive you. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, she’d say, as long as you take control of the narrative.

But in the moment, that isn’t what you do. And you keep hold of his arm.

Paul jumps back, as if he’s been stung by a bee, letting out an unintelligible murmur. His expression is unreadable as he maneuvers out of your grasp. He doesn’t say anything, but when you try to approach him, he holds up his hand to keep you away.

“Good night, Paul,” you say in defeat, watching him return to his room without reply.

*

The next morning, when you enter the kitchen, Brenda is eating breakfast alone. Her face looks a bit strange, as if holding something back. You think to yourself: if there was ever a time for surrender, it’s now.

“Ma, there’s something I want to tell you.”

You steel yourself.

“Paul should be here too, but he’s sorry, he’s not feeling well.”

You’re still holding your breath.

“Ma, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she says again. “Aku hamil.”

You don’t understand.

Or maybe you weren’t really listening. You’re a bit disoriented as Brenda walks toward you, both arms tentatively outstretched. Then you realize. Your daughter wants—and needs—a maternal embrace, your embrace. She’s pregnant—well, she says she is, and it’s not the sort of thing you joke about. It’s moments like this that make a mother.

You hug. “Congratulations, darling,” you say hoarsely. “I’m so happy for you!”

You try to remember when you last held her like this. Was it three years ago, the last time she came home to Jakarta? Or two years ago, when you managed to visit her in London, after borrowing whatever you could? Why had the child waited so long to tell you?

But, what good would it do to reopen old wounds? Soon you will be a grandmother, and as long as you live you won’t be able to erase the fact that you’ve kissed the father of your future grandchild in a way that could never be mistaken for grandmotherly.

“How far along are you?”

“Around three months, Ma. At first we were thinking we would tell you and Dad tonight, when we were at dinner. We wanted to surprise you!”

As usual, you don’t say much because you are afraid of being judged, especially by your own daughter, so you just smile. You reach out your hand and stroke her stomach, which still feels flat; it has never not felt flat. Even though twenty years have passed since the last time you rubbed Brenda’s tummy, when she was in pain from appendicitis, it’s one of your clearest memories.

And so, you spend the morning with your daughter, who together with her partner has graciously flown so far from the north, sacrificing their brief, precious, one-week holiday to look in on her parents.

Later that day, when you go down to the sitting room, you don’t see Brenda or Paul. Bu Yani, your housemaid, says they just left for the closest mall. “They said they wanted lunch,” she pouts, because she wore herself out cooking Brenda’s favorite foods and feels staggeringly disregarded. You remember how often, when she was a child, you would remind Brenda to always eat what had already been served, to always say goodbye before departing.

A few hours later, your cell phone rings.

“Ma,” Brenda says in a serious tone, “The source we’ve been chasing for months suddenly wants to meet. This person is penting banget, really important, for our project. You won’t mind if we skip dinner tonight, will you?”

You’re not given the opportunity to reply.

“I’m sorry, Ma. Ma’af ya. I hope you understand. The important thing is that Papa’s heard the good news, right?”

Your throat feels dry. For a moment you can’t remember what good news your daughter is talking about. And besides, when’s the last time she saw you chatting with her father?

“Oh, and after that, maybe we’ll go out with friends. So we might get home a bit late, but you’re okay with that, right Ma?”

For a moment you have the urge to say something childish, like: But we haven’t seen each other for two years, and you’re only here for a week! Your time really can’t be prioritized for your parents? Or: Since when are your friends more important than your mother?

But, yet again you just mumble. “Of course, darling. Have fun.”

*

A week passes so quickly. It turns out you can only spend a very small amount of time with your daughter, who’s always busy, and her partner, who always seems to be feeling unwell.

On their last morning in your house, once again you find Brenda eating breakfast alone. Her face looks a little peaked, like it used to when she would go out clubbing and come home in the wee hours.

“Papa left earlier than usual,” she said. “But I already pamit. I said my goodbyes.”

You nod. You don’t tell Brenda that in fact you purposefully urged him to leave early, though his meeting at the university didn’t start until nine. You wanted to be alone in your turmoil today, you needed every inch of your house to yourself.

“Paul’s still not feeling great, Ma,” Brenda continues, though you didn’t ask. “And we still have to pack.”

You don’t answer. While you pretend to check the refrigerator, you remind her that the car will be ready at 3:30 to drive them to the airport.

“Today you’ll be staying here at home, right, Mama?” Brenda asks. For a moment her voice sounds like a child’s, like she’s still five years old. You’re a little surprised, and moved, because you wouldn’t have imagined she would care whether you were at home or not.  And because her calling you Mama is still the most beautiful sound in the world.

“I’m not sure,” you say a bit shakily. “I might have to meet Aunt Laura around 2:30.” Of course you’re lying because Laura isn’t even in Jakarta. But you don’t want to be home when they return from the mall. Or when they leave for the airport.

Suddenly your tears spill over onto your cheeks. You embrace your daughter and stroke her hair, allowing yourself this brief moment. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” you whisper.

Brenda looks at you in amusement, as if you’ve lost your marbles.

That afternoon, at around 2:45, you go to the mall near your house (not the mall where they’re eating lunch) and send Brenda a WhatsApp message: I won’t be meeting Aunt Laura until 3:30. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I’ll make it in time to say goodbye.

You wait expectantly, a little disappointed that Brenda doesn’t seem disappointed enough to phone you right away. Fifteen minutes later, you see the word typing appear on the upper left of your cell phone screen. At least there’s something she wants to say.

I’ll miss you.

That night, around 7:45, two hours after you get up the courage to go home, there’s a message from Brenda.

Taking off in five. Thank you for everything, Mama.

Your chest feels tight, but you don’t want to be the one to send the last message.

Three or four minutes later, she sends another message: PS Salam dari Paul.

Greetings from Paul. This time written in Indonesian, a language that your daughter’s partner doesn’t speak, by your daughter, who now speaks it so little, and who clearly doesn’t know anything—at least, not yet.

Suddenly you feel so depraved, so utterly beyond redemption. You’ll have to wait so long before you can cuddle and croon and rock your grandchild, as its mother and father look on.

And you know that none of it will be up to you.

“Anna dan Partner Anaknya” © Laksmi Pamuntjak. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2023 by Annie Tucker. All rights reserved.

Jangan kira perempuan-perempuan seumur kita tak pernah lagi berfantasi tentang laki-laki yang bukan suami kita, begitu kata teman-temanmu. Karena kau tak mau dianggap berbeda dari mereka, kau tertawa enteng, seolah kau berfantasi tentang laki-laki yang bukan suamimu setiap hari. Tapi sesungguhnya kau tak pernah berfantasi tentang laki-laki mana pun, termasuk suamimu sendiri, apalagi tentang seks. Seks jenis apa pun, baik itu seks balas dendam, seks kesepian, seks penangkal bosan, atau seks iseng.

Yang kaupikirkan hanya tiga hal.

Satu: Uang (yang kau tak punya).

Dua: Anakmu satu-satunya (yang sudah menikah dan hidup di luar negeri).

Tiga: Tubuh dan otakmu (yang semakin sering lelah).

Kadang kau teringat temanmu Dina. Pada ulang tahunnya ke-50, Dina menggelar ladies’ night besar-besaran untuk teman-teman dekatnya. Bintang tamunya Jojo Sifredi, stripteaser laki-laki yang populer di kalangan ibu-ibu muda kaya kurang kerjaan.

“Jojo nih spesial banget,” kata Dina, “soalnya dia tuh real.”

“Maksudnya?”

“Ya, dia seumuran sama kita, mature, bukan berondong bego. Lebih real, gitu.”

“Kan gak semua berondong bego?”

“Memangnya kamu pernah sama berondong?”

Meskipun ia benar, kau jadi sebal karena seperti biasa kau digoblok-goblokin Dina. Ia pasti berpikir, mana mungkin orang kolot dan kuper seperti dirimu pernah merasakan tidur sama berondong. Tapi mesti kauakui, kau memang tak pernah tertarik pada laki-laki yang lebih muda darimu. Sebaliknya, kenapa pula mereka harus tertarik padamu? Bukankah yang mereka cari dari perempuan seumurmu hanya duit atau seks yang terampil, matang dan mencerahkan—kalau bisa dua-duanya? Dua hal yang tak kaumiliki.

Sementara, setiap kali kau berpikir tentang Dina dan pesta ulang tahunnya ke-50, kau akan teringat ulang tahunmu sendiri yang ke-50, yang kaurayakan dengan sepotong kue cokelat dan tiga lusin tangkai mawar yang kaubeli sendiri pagi-pagi buta di Pasar Bunga Rawa Belong. Sambil membayar, kaukatakan kepada tukang kembang, “Lihat nih Pak, suami saya gimana gak baik sekali, coba, dia minta saya pilih bunga sendiri buat ulang tahun saya.”

 Gobloknya kau cerita pada Dina tentang pengalamanmu itu.

“Yah, itu mah normal, cinnn,” kata Dina. “Semakin tua kita semakin harus ngurusin diri sendiri.”

Kau mengangguk-angguk saja meski kau tak yakin apakah Dina pernah “harus” ngurusin dirinya sendiri. Kalaupun pernah, apakah ia tahu caranya? Kau juga tak yakin siapa yang normal: kau atau Dina.

Menurut suamimu sang cendekiawan, “normal” adalah konsep yang relatif baru, yang lahir dari gagasan ilmuwan Belgia, Adolfe Quitelet, pada awal abad ke-19, tentang “manusia rata-rata”. Itulah awal mula konstruksi sosial: siapa pun dan apa pun yang di luar “rata-rata”—prestasi anak kita di sekolah, kinerja kita di kantor, kemahiran kita di tempat tidur—membuat kita tak percaya diri, merasa abnormal.

Tapi waktu itu kau sedang jengkel terhadap suamimu—akhir-akhir ini kau selalu jengkel terhadap suamimu—jadi kau tak sudi mengakui kata-katanya ada benarnya. Kau juga tak mengakui bahwa semakin kau bertambah umur, kau semakin tak bertenaga untuk menerima advis buruk dan menolak advis baik, dari mana pun advis itu datang. Masukan suamimu itu sebetulnya advis yang baik.

Kau tak lagi sudi membuang waktu merasa berutang budi pada siapa-siapa, atau menyalahkan diri atas kesalahan yang kauperbuat (atau tidak). Kau tak lagi bernafsu mengubah cara pandang orang lain atau mengubah dirimu sendiri untuk menyenangkan orang lain. Seperti dalam hal seks, kau tak ingin mengejar, mengisi, atau melekaskan apa pun. Kau juga tak ingin dipenuhi, dipuaskan, atau dilengkapi oleh siapa pun.

Dalam fantasimu mengenai laki-laki yang bukan suamimu—andai kau memaksakannya—kau tak membayangkan hal-hal yang dibayangkan teman-temanmu. Kau tak membayangkan dirimu tidur dengan orang asing yang kautemui di bar atau ditelanjangi dan diikat tangannya ke ranjang oleh Jojo Sifredi. Atau oleh cowok-cowok muda yang badan-badan liat terukirnya saja akan membuatmu menangis saking begitu indahnya, yang tahan berjam-jam di ranjang, dan yang terlatih di mana harus menyentuhmu, serta tahu betul cara membuatmu merasa sebagai ratu semalam. Kalaupun kau kaya raya, kau tak akan menghambur-hamburkan duit berjuta-juta hanya untuk pacaran semalam dengan berondong-berondong sewaan atau instruktur-instruktur dansa dari mancanegara.

Kau akan membayangkan sesuatu yang lebih sederhana: bergandengan tangan di depan umum, makan malam di restoran, pergi ke Rawa Belong dan menikmati, dengan mata kepala sendiri, seorang lelaki membeli bunga dan mempersembahkannya buatmu. Kau akan membayangkan nikmatnya ngobrol mengenai hal-hal tentang dirimu yang sudah lama tak kauungkapkan kepada seorang pria: tentang perjalanan pertamamu ke luar negeri, buku-buku kesayanganmu ketika kau remaja, jenis musik yang membuat tubuhmu melenggang, lalu merasakan belaian pria itu pada pundakmu. Tapi, kau tahu itu takkan pernah terjadi, sebab kau tak punya tenaga untuk berfantasi.

*

Beberapa hari kemudian, kau menerima kabar dari anakmu, Brenda, bahwa ia akan berkunjung dari London. Kalian sudah lama tak bertemu. Kau dan suamimu sudah bertahun-tahun hidup irit—tak mampu buang-buang uang ke luar negeri untuk urusan yang tak penting-penting amat. Selama ini, meski kau kangen setengah mati, kau gengsi meminta-minta ia datang, dan kali ini kau terharu luar biasa karena ternyata anakmu masih peduli.

Brenda akan datang bersama partnernya, Paul, orang Inggris- berdarah Italia. Ketika menyebut kata Italia, suara anakmu sedikit naik, seolah fakta itu membuat mutu partnernya naik dua kali lipat.

“Dia lebih dari sekadar pacar,” kata anakmu dulu, “dia partnerku. Partner dalam kehidupan.”

“Di Indonesia hanya ada dua kategori,” tukasmu, “pacar atau suami. Tak ada yang di tengah-tengah. Partner itu istilah bisnis. Kalau kamu memperkenalkan dia di sini sebagai partnermu, orang gak akan mikir, oh, itu teman kumpul kebomu. Mereka akan pikir kalian mitra bisnis.”

“Tapi aku tinggal di Inggris,” kata anakmu dengan nada tinggi. “Dan kerja di sana. Di Inggris, domestic partnership ikatan yang sah.”

Kau tetap tak setuju. “Di Indonesia kumpul kebo itu tindak pidana.” Katamu. “Dan tolong camkan ini, Brenda. Selama aku ibumu kau tetap orang Indonesia. Lagi pula, aku mesti bilang apa sama teman-temanku kalau mereka bilang ‘kok bisa-bisanya kamu terima anakmu dan pacarnya berzina di rumahmu’?”

Tapi karena kau kangen anakmu bukan main, kau tak ingin ngeyel. Sudah bagus anakmu masih tetap ingin pulang dan menginap di rumah orangtuanya, dan bukannya tinggal di hotel seperti anak-anak milenial pengembara yang tak punya rasa keberakaran atau ikatan terhadap rumah. Meski kau diam-diam cemas partner anakmu itu pelit atau—lebih parah lagi—miskin. Memangnya, berapa sih penghasilannya sebagai aktivis lingkungan?

Kau memutuskan menunggu sampai anakmu datang ke Jakarta untuk memarahinya. Kau berharap waktu akan memberimu cukup kearifan untuk menentukan perasaanmu tentang partner anakmu.

*

Kau hanya pernah bertemu partner anakmu sekali, di London, ketika kau menghadiri upacara ikat janji mereka yang menurutmu begitu absurd: sebagai pasangan domestik. Kau tak bilang pada satu pun teman atau keluargamu, tidak juga pada adikmu Laura, sebab kau tak bisa menjelaskan kenapa kau tak mengambil posisi yang tegas—seperti suamimu, misalnya. Suamimu yang suka sok arif penuh pengertian mentang-mentang ia guru besar filsafat.

Kau terbang ke London sendirian setelah bertengkar berminggu-minggu dengan suamimu, yang menolak hadir meski ia memberikan restunya. Kau kecewa pada suamimu sebab kau menganggapnya mencla-mencle: ia jelas-jelas tak nyaman dengan bentuk ikatan itu—apalagi ini menyangkut anak perempuan satu-satunya—tapi berhubung ia ingin dilihat sebagai intelektual berpikiran liberal, ia tak berani menggugatnya.

“Aku bukan kamu,” kata suamimu waktu itu, “yang selalu terlalu peduli apa kata orang. Aku tak akan pernah menyabot kebahagiaan anakku sendiri demi citraku di mata dunia.”

“Asal ingat saja, ya, dari dulu yang posisinya jelas di antara kita malah aku. Gak sekalipun dalam tiga bulan terakhir semenjak FaceTime brengsek itu aku pura-pura besar hati dan suportif terhadap mereka hanya agar dilihat sebagai orangtua modern dan cool. Pada akhirnya, kamu gak berani gak mempraktikkan kata-katamu sendiri.”

“Aku cuma bilang kamu terlalu peduli kata orang.”

“Tapi pada akhirnya, siapa yang akan naik pesawat itu besok dan mendampingi anak kita? Aku! Padahal aku sama sekali tak setuju dengan segala omong kosong ini!” suaraku mulai naik. “Bisa-bisanya kamu berpikir aku rela menyabot kebahagiaan anakku sendiri demi citraku di mata masyarakat.”

“Kamu terlalu takut pada Brenda. Kamu gak pernah sadar kamu dijajah anakmu sendiri.”

“Kamu munafik.” Katamu.

 “Kamu selalu sok martir.” Kata suamimu.

*

Tiga bulan sebelum kau terbang ke London, anakmu mengirimimu dan suamimu WhatsApp: Mama, Papa, boleh gak kita FaceTime-an besok pagi waktu Jakarta? Aku ada kabar gembira.

Kau deg-degan tapi seperti biasa kau menjawab dengan kegembiraan yang dibuat-buat: Sureeeeeee. What time?  Lengkap dengan segambreng emoji ceria di belakang kalimat.

Ketika esoknya kau dan suamimu duduk tak sabar di depan layar laptop masing-masing (kau di ruang tamu, suamimu di ruang bacanya), kau melihat anakmu semata wayang; seseorang yang kaukenal sekaligus tak kaukenal. Rambutnya sekarang pendek sebahu, aksennya seperti ningrat Inggris, tapi ia tetap seperti dulu, selalu menguncupkan mulut setiap kali selesai mengutarakan sesuatu yang serius, seolah ingin memastikan semua orang sungguh-sungguh memahami apa yang ia maksud.

Wajahnya tak lagi muncul sendirian tapi berduaan dengan pemuda berwajah tegang yang tampak sama iwik-nya dengan anakmu sendiri, pemuda yang memperkenalkan dirinya lewat layar yang sama beberapa bulan lalu (Ma, kenalkan, ini Paul). Pemuda yang lengannya sekarang merangkul anakmu dengan kikuk, tak yakin apakah gestur itu akan menyinggung perasaan orangtua paruh baya dari dusun di Timur ini.

Kau hampir tak sanggup memandang wajahnya, apalagi menyimak apa sebenarnya dari raut wajah itu yang membuat anakmu berpikir untuk menyerahkan hidupnya kepada lelaki itu, pada usia yang sama kau menyerahkan hidupmu kepada suamimu, 26 tahun yang lalu, dengan segala beban dan tekanan yang tak harus ia alami sebab kau telah membebaskannya dari itu semua. Kau tahu apa yang akan kaudengar, dan kau tak ingin mendengarnya. Tapi kau tak bisa mematikan semua indramu sekaligus.

“Ma, Pa,” kata anakmu dengan suara yang masih terdengar polos bagimu. “Aku dan Paul akan mengikat janji.”

Kau mencoba tersenyum, sebab bukankah itu yang diharapkan semua anak ketika mereka ingin dibebaskan dari orangtua mereka? Tapi kau merasakan debar jantungmu mengambil alih semua indra. Kau setengah mendengar suamimu mengucapkannya duluan, “Wah, selamat, ini kabar gembira yang sangat luar biasa.”

Sementara kau diam saja, sebab kau tak merasa ada yang perlu diselamati, apalagi membuat gembira luar biasa. Kau bukan hanya tak gembira, kau tak suka anakmu sekadar berkabar, dan bukan meminta restumu sebagaimana kau sujud sungkem di hadapan ibu-bapakmu entah berapa tahun lalu itu supaya mereka mengizinkanmu menikahi suamimu yang ternyata cuma sok pintar padahal pengecut.

Setelah kau menemukan suaramu, kau bertanya, “Jadi kapan rencananya? Kapan kalian akan pulang?”

“Oh, Ma,” kata anakmu, nadanya hati-hati. “Kami bukan mau nikah. Kami mau ikat janji dalam persatuan sipil—civil union.”

“Oh,” katamu.

Dalam menit-menit berikutnya, sambil mendengar dengung suara suamimu mengambil alih pembicaraan, kau tak yakin apakah kau lega anakmu tak jadi kawin dan menyerahkan hidup dan masa depannya pada pemuda yang tak dikenal ini, ataukah sakit hati bahwa anakmu telah sebegitu jauh dari budayanya sendiri (dari budayamu, dari dirimu), hingga ia tak peduli bahwa ia tengah menginjak-injak nilai-nilai yang telah diwariskan oleh leluhurmu. Kau juga marah pada suamimu sebab ia terkesan lembek, tak berwibawa, seolah kau dan dirinya masih bermental kolonial, bangga dan merasa naik pangkat jika anak dapat pasangan bule.

Ketika anakmu berkabar beberapa minggu kemudian bahwa mereka sudah dapat tanggal di catatan sipil, kau tak bertanya apakah ia betul-betul percaya bahwa dengan tidak menikah, ikatan mereka akan menjadi lebih kuat. Bahwa cinta mereka malah akan semakin kukuh dan jujur, tanpa embel-embel struktur yang membebaninya.

Sebab kau diam-diam takut ia benar.

Sewaktu di London, kau seolah berjalan dalam tidur. Tak jelas apakah kabut yang menggelayut di hadapan matamu berasal dari udara atau dari otakmu yang kalut. Setiap kali kau dan Paul berada di satu ruangan, seolah ada tabir yang seketika memisahkan kalian. Kau tak tahu bagaimana harus bersikap, sebagai mertua kah, sebagai mertua-mertuaan, atau sebagai teman. Kau masih tak sanggup merekam parasnya, detail mata, hidung, dan mulutnya, atau warna rambut dan kulitnya, meski kau telah berkali-kali bicara padanya. Kau hanya mencatat betapa tubuh tingginya yang impresif memenuhi ruang.

Ketika kau duduk bersama orangtuanya—besan kah, besan-besanan atau teman—di barisan terdepan ruang yang kaku dan dingin itu, kau ingin menangis. Kau dan kedua orang itu sama-sama saksi dari ikatan resmi dan tak resmi itu, tapi kalian tak saling mengenal dan kau sendirian. Kau merasa ada yang sangat jomplang dalam konfigurasi ini. Kau tak tahu apakah anakmu benar-benar pergi, apakah anak mereka benar-benar telah mencurinya darimu, atau semua itu hanyalah sandiwara. Kau juga ingin menangis ketika mereka menyebutmu salah satu undangan, seolah hari kepergian anakmu bukan bagian dari hak kelahiranmu, seolah alasan keberadaanmu seorang diri di sana membuat dirimu dan definisi dirimu sebagai ibu, ikut menjadi tak resmi. Tapi airmatamu tak kunjung keluar. Kau tak tahu sebenarnya kau sedih atau bahagia. Kau tak tahu apakah kau harus merasa terlantar atau terbebaskan dari penjara sekaligus karunia terbesar kehidupan: menjadi ibu.

Kau baru sungguh-sungguh melihatnya—partner anakmu itu—ketika ia mengambil cuti setengah hari dan mengantarmu ke bandara siang-siang, tanpa anakmu yang tak bisa meninggalkan kantor. Kau tak yakin persis momennya. Yang jelas, ketika kau menoleh ke arahnya—mungkin ketika ia sedang menyetel pemanas, atau ketika ia sedang mencari-cari lagu dari playlist—tiba-tiba kau menyadari bahwa ia ganteng sekali. Kau bisa membayangkannya dua puluh lima tahun lagi, di usiamu sekarang: rahangnya yang Latin, mata birunya yang awas, rambutnya yang hitam keperakan.

Ketika kau memeluknya sebelum kalian berpisah di depan imigrasi, kau bisa menghidu akar wangi dan minyak nilam di tengkuknya, dan mungkin sedikit aroma jeruk dan cemara.

Di pesawat, dalam perjalanan pulang ke Jakarta, kau merasa seperti burung yang baru ditangkap dan disekap kembali di dalam sangkar.

*

Ketika saat itu datang—ketika Brenda dan Paul tiba di rumahmu, lebih seperti tamu dibanding keluarga—kau lagi-lagi gugup dan tak sekalipun menatap mata Paul. Kau bolak-balik melirik suamimu, takut ia bisa melihat perubahan pada sikapmu. Tapi kau segera sadar, suamimu tetap tak akan ngeh kalaupun kau mencat rambutmu biru, tidur telanjang di sisinya, atau tergelincir ke dalam jurang persis di hadapannya dan hilang selamanya.

Sesuatu tentang kemunafikan suamimu membuatmu ingin tampil modern dan egaliter, jadi begitu sopirmu bertanya di mana ia harus meletakkan koper-koper Non Brenda, kau menjawab, tak usah, tak usah, nanti biar mereka sendiri saja yang bawa ke kamar. Kau tahu anakmu menganggap hidup dengan Asisten Rumah Tangga sebagai bentuk feodalisme yang harus dibasmi sampai ke akar-akarnya, jadi begitu sopirmu keluar dari ruang duduk, kau berbisik kepada anakmu, nanti kalian tidur di ruang tidur tamu, ya.

Malamnya, ketika suami dan anakmu sedang ngobrol di ruang duduk, kau memberanikan diri bergabung bersama partner anakmu yang ingin merokok di teras. Paul masih memanggilmu Anna, bukan Tante, atau Mrs. Effendi. Kau mencoba berbasa-basi, dan sejenak kalian bicara tentang hal-hal yang banal: kualitas makanan di pesawat, tanggapannya tentang kemacetan Jakarta, pekerjaannya yang memberi banyak kepuasan jiwa. Kau berusaha tak bertanya, jadi, berapa penghasilanmu sebulan? Kau yakin ia merasakan kecanggunganmu yang tak lazim. Sesekali, kau mencium aroma itu lagi setiap kali kalian berdekatan, minyak nilam, akar wangi dan sesuatu yang akrab sekaligus asing: mungkin efek humiditas Iklim Tropis pada peluhnya. Hatimu bergetar.

Tiba-tiba saja, tanganmu meraih tisu yang entah kenapa ada di saku celanamu. Kau mendekat dan menyeka keringat itu dari lehernya.

“Sori,” katamu. Tapi anehnya kau tak mundur atau menjauh. “Jakarta memang panas sekali.”

Meski ia sempat kaget, ia tak tampak terlalu jengah setelah momen itu berlalu. Ia tersenyum dan hanya mengucap, “Sure.” Sementara kau sibuk mencoba merasionalisasi tindakanmu tadi. Dengar, Anna. Kau itu setingkat ibu mertua. Dalam kosmos kemitraan laki-laki dan perempuan, kau sangat amat berhak menyeka keringat partner anakmu. Jangan merasa begitu kerdil.

Kalian bertahan di teras itu lima menit lagi, memanjangkan basa-basi. Selagi kau nyerocos mengenai tempat-tempat wisata yang harus mereka kunjungi, kau melihat pendar intim di matanya.

Menjelang tengah malam, kalian berpapasan lagi di dapur, tak sengaja, ketika rumah telah sunyi.

“Hai,” katamu. Nada suaramu aneh sekali, tinggi, nyaris melengking.

“Hai, Anna,” katanya. Namamu terdengar asing di telingamu sendiri. Hanya suamimu dan teman-temanmu yang memanggilmu Anna.

“Kamu perlu apa, Paul?”

“Aku haus, Anna.”

“Oh, bukannya aku sudah taruh kendi air di kamar kalian?”

“Ya, tapi airnya sudah habis.”

Sejenak kalian bertatapan di sebelah dispenser air minum seolah takdirlah yang mempertemukan kalian di sana.

Di bawah sinar lampu di atas mesin penyaji air itu, kau lihat perut papan setrikanya membayang dari balik kaus putihnya. Tiba-tiba lidahmu kelu. Kaubiarkan ia mengisi gelasnya tanpa interupsi.

Tiba-tiba kau mendengar suara gemeresik, dan sejurus kemudian seekor cicak melompat ke luar dari bak sampah. Kalian sama-sama terkejut: pemuda itu karena ia lahir dan besar di negeri empat musim, dan tak pernah hidup dengan binatang melata di dalam rumah, dan kau karena tiba-tiba saja kau seperti orang kemasukan setan.

Paul berdeham, sedikit kikuk.

“Good night, Anna,” katanya, sebelum ia melangkah kembali ke arah kamarnya, tempat anakmu sedang menunggu, penuh antisipasi, mungkin tanpa busana. Hatimu kembali berdebar, tapi kali ini bersama rasa sakit yang menusuk di ulu hati. Kau tak tahu apa yang berlangsung di otakmu, tapi dua patah kata itu, good night, terdengar begitu lembut dan begitu mengasihi, dan entah karena kegilaan apa, kau menyambar lengannya dan menahannya. Lalu kau cium pemuda itu di atas sudut kiri bibirnya.

Sejenak, kalian terpaku di tempat. Panik melanda seperti tegangan listrik tinggi yang mengaliri seluruh badanmu sampai ke ubun-ubun.  Kau menyentuh lengannya.

“Sori,” katamu gugup, meskipun seharusnya kau tak meminta maaf, sebab kau hanya memberinya kecupan selamat malam. Seharusnya kau cepat-cepat tertawa, sebab ciumanmu sedikit meleset—ha ha, it happens—seperti nasihat anakmu tentang cara bersikap setelah melakukan kesalahan. You have to own it, apa pun kesalahan itu. Begitu kau menguasai naratifnya, orang akan memaafkanmu.

Tapi saat itu, bukan itu yang terjadi. Paul mundur, seolah baru tersengat lebah, parasnya tak terbaca. Ia tak berkata apa-apa, hanya menggumamkan sesuatu yang terdengar seperti mhmh selagi ia beringsut menjauh darimu. Ketika kau berusaha mendekat, ia melarangmu dengan tangannya.

“Good night, Paul,” katamu putus asa, sambil melihat lelaki muda itu kembali ke kamar tanpa menjawabmu.

*

Esok paginya, ketika kau masuk ke ruang makan, Brenda sedang sarapan sendirian. Wajahnya sedikit aneh, seperti memendam sesuatu. Kau bergumam pada dirimu sendiri, kalau ada yang namanya harus pasrah, inilah saatnya.

“Ma, ada sesuatu yang mau aku sampaikan.”

(Kau menguatkan hati).

“Seharusnya Paul di sini juga. Tapi dia minta maaf, dia lagi gak enak badan.”

Kau masih menahan napas.

“Ma, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” katanya lagi. “Aku hamil.”

Kau tak memahami apa yang baru saja dikatakan anakmu. Atau barangkali kau tak benar-benar mendengarkan. Kau sedikit bengong melihat Brenda melangkah ke arahmu, dengan kedua tangan setengah terbuka. Lalu kau tersentak. Anakmu mengharapkan—dan membutuhkan—pelukan ibunya. Momen seperti inilah yang menjadikanmu seorang ibu.

Kalian berpelukan. “Selamat, sayang,” katamu parau. “I’m so happy for you!”

Kau mencoba mengingat kapan kalian berdua terakhir berpelukan seperti ini. Apakah tiga tahun lalu, waktu Brenda pulang ke Jakarta terakhir kali? Atau dua tahun lalu, ketika kau susah payah menengok Brenda di London, setelah berutang kanan-kiri? Mengapa anak itu menunggu begitu lama untuk memberitahumu?

Tapi, buat apa mengingat-ingat luka lama? Sebentar lagi kau akan menjadi seorang nenek, dan seumur hidup kau takkan bisa menghapus fakta bahwa kau telah mencium bapak bakal cucumu di sudut bibirnya, dengan cara yang sama sekali tidak kenenek-nenekan.

“Sudah berapa lama?”

“Sekitar tiga bulan, Ma. Tadinya kami mau kasih tahu Papa Mama malam ini, pas kita dinner. We wanted to surprise you!”

Seperti biasa kau tak berkomentar banyak karena takut dianggap ini-itu, apalagi oleh anakmu sendiri, jadi kau tersenyum saja. Kau mengulurkan tanganmu dan mengelus perut anakmu yang rasanya tetap saja rata, tak pernah tak rata. Itu satu-satunya ingatan tentang anakmu yang bisa diandalkan, meski sudah dua puluh tahun berlalu sejak kau terakhir mengusap perut Brenda, ketika anak itu kesakitan kena usus buntu.

Begitulah, kau melewati pagi bersama anakmu, yang bersama partnernya telah berbaik hati terbang jauh dari Utara, mengorbankan cuti mereka yang hanya seminggu, untuk menengok orangtua.

Siangnya, ketika turun ke ruang duduk, kau tak melihat Brenda dan Paul. Menurut Bu Yani, ART-mu, mereka baru saja berangkat ke mal dekat rumah. “Bilangnya mau makan siang, Bu,” kata Bu Yani dengan wajah masam, sebab ia sudah capek-capek masak hidangan-hidangan kesayangan Brenda dan merasa tak dihargai. Kau teringat betapa seringnya kau mengingatkan Brenda kecil untuk selalu makan apa yang telah disediakan, dan untuk pamit sebelum pergi.

Beberapa jam kemudian, ponselmu berdering.

“Ma,” kata Brenda, nadanya serius. “Narasumber yang kami incar berbulan-bulan mendadak ingin ketemu. Orang ini penting banget untuk proyek kami. Gak apa-apa ya, Ma, kita gak jadi dinner malam ini.”

Kau tak diberi kesempatan menjawab.

“Maaf ya, Ma. I hope you understand. Tapi yang penting Papa sudah tahu kan berita baiknya?”

Kerongkonganmu terasa kering. Sesaat kau lupa berita baik mana yang anakmu maksud. Lagi pula, kapan ia terakhir melihatmu ngobrol sama bapaknya?

“Oh ya, mungkin kami mau lanjut dengan teman-teman. Jadi pulangnya malam gak apa-apa ya, Ma?”

Sesaat kau ingin mengatakan sesuatu yang kekanak-kanakan, seperti: Tapi kita kan sudah dua tahun gak ketemu, sementara kamu cuma di sini seminggu. Masa waktumu tidak bisa diprioritaskan untuk orangtuamu? Atau: Sejak kapan teman-temanmu lebih penting dari ibumu?

Tapi, lagi-lagi kau hanya menggumam, “Tentu. Senang-senang, ya.”

*

Seminggu berlalu begitu cepat dan kau ternyata sangat jarang bisa menghabiskan waktu dengan anakmu yang selalu sibuk, dan partnernya yang selalu mengaku tak enak badan.

Pada pagi terakhir mereka di rumahmu, lagi-lagi kau mendapati Brenda sarapan sendirian. Wajahnya sedikit capek, seperti dulu-dulu waktu ia masih sering pergi clubbing dan pulang dini hari.

“Tadi Papa tumben pergi pagi sekali,” katanya. “Tapi aku sudah pamit kok.”

Kau mengangguk. Kau tak bilang pada Brenda bahwa kau memang sengaja mendorong-dorong suamimu pergi pagi-pagi, meski rapatnya di universitas baru mulai jam sembilan. Kau ingin sendiri dalam pergulatanmu hari ini, kau memerlukan setiap inci dari rumahmu untuk dirimu.

“Paul masih gak enak badan, Ma,” lanjut Brenda tanpa ditanya. “Kita masih harus ngepak.”

Kau tak menjawab. Sambil pura-pura mengecek isi kulkas, kau mengingatkan bahwa mobil akan siap pukul 15.30 untuk mengantar mereka ke bandara.

“Hari ini Mama bakal di rumah, kan?” tanya Brenda. Selintas suaranya seperti anak kecil, seperti waktu ia masih lima tahun. Kau sedikit terkejut sebab kau tak menyangka ia akan peduli apakah kau di rumah apa tidak.

“I’m not sure,” katamu dengan suara sedikit oleng. “Mama mungkin harus ketemu Tante Laura sekitar jam setengah tigaan.” Tentu saja kau mengarang-ngarang karena Laura bahkan sedang tidak di Jakarta. Tapi kau tak mau ada di rumah ketika mereka kembali dari mal. Juga ketika mereka pergi ke bandara.

Tiba-tiba air matamu menggenang di pelupuk. Kau merengkuh dan membelai kepala anakmu, walau cuma sebentar.

“Maaf, Sayang,” bisikmu.

Brenda menatapmu dengan geli, seolah kau bercanda. 

Sorenya, sekitar pukul 14.45, kau pergi ke mal dekat rumah (bukan mal tempat mereka pergi makan siang) dan mengirim pesan WhatsApp ke Brenda: Ketemuan sama Tante Laura diundur ke jam 15.30. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I’ll make it in time to say goodbye.

Kau menanti, dan sedikit kecewa karena Brenda tak begitu kecewa dan terpukul hingga merasa harus meneleponmu langsung. Lima belas menit kemudian, kau lihat kata typing membayang di pojok kiri atas layar ponsel. Paling tidak ada sesuatu yang ingin ia katakan.

I’ll miss you.

Malamnya, sekitar pukul 19.45, dua jam setelah kau memberanikan diri pulang ke rumah, ada pesan masuk dari Brenda.

Taking off in five. Thank you for everything, Mama.

Dadamu sesak, tapi kau tak ingin jadi pengirim pesan terakhir.

Tiga-empat menit kemudian, ia mengirim pesan lagi: P.S. Salam dari Paul.

Ditulis dalam bahasa Indonesia, bahasa yang bukan bahasa partner anakmu, oleh anakmu yang sudah jelas tak tahu apa-apa, paling tidak pada saat itu.

Tiba-tiba kau merasa begitu bejat, dan begitu tak terselamatkan, sebab kau tahu kau harus lama menunggu sampai kau bisa menimang cucumu di hadapan bapak dan ibunya.

Kau tahu ini semua takkan tergantung padamu.