Chapter Text
" Ah, well, I risk my life for my own work and my reason has half foundered in it. But what can you do…”
November 28, 1981. That day.
A young woman scampered inside the room, her dark hair a mess and eyes red. All the lights were off in the house, and the only sounds were the weak sniffles of the woman. She held out her wand, her hand shaking, and casted a spell. The lights of the living room were dim, but bright enough to see where everything was.
The woman walked in and her knees gave way. She dropped onto the nearby sofa chair, dropping her wand in the process. There she wept in silence, trying her hardest not to wake up the children in the house. For a few minutes, she only sat and cried. She cried about how she couldn’t do anything in the end. She cried about the secrets kept and the secrets revealed. Most of all, she cried about what she, no, what they lost.
Then a light creak startled her. She straightened and turned her head towards the stairway. Leaning on the railing was a little boy, who looked no more than the age of three. “Mama,” he yawned. “We didn’t get our bedtime story.”
The woman didn’t speak at first. She only stared at the little boy and wondered whether he had heard her cry. After coming back to her senses, she wiped her tears away and smiled weakly. “Story…of course, my boy. Let’s get you back to bed. It’s almost four.” She stood and picked him up. Together, the two of them walked up the stairs and to the bedroom. “Is your sister awake too?”
“No, I just woke up,” the boy rubbed his eyes.
“That’s good, that’s good.”
She opened the bedroom door and glanced at the baby sleeping soundly in her crib. Above her were floating yellow stars that played a soothing lullaby. She gently laid her son down on the bed next to the crib and tucked him in. She picked up a book from the nightstand and sat down next to him. “Let’s read the Hopping Pot again. It’s your favorite,” the woman whispered.
“But mum,” the boy spoke in a faint and tired voice, “you read to me yesterday. It’s papa’s turn today.”
The woman took a deep breath. She stared at the child with a lump in her throat, unable to muster up the right words to say. How will she tell him? How will she tell him that he’ll never read him bedtime stories again? How will she tell him that everything will change from now on? She let out a long and wistful sigh as her eyes turned watery again.
“Papa... won’t be coming home this evening.” That was her answer.
“Is he at work again?” asked the boy, rubbing his eyes. He let out a soft yawn and buried himself deeper in his blanket.
“He’s... away. He won’t be coming home for a while,” she said as her voice cracked just a little. “Let’s start the bedtime story?”
The boy did not reply. Instead, he slept peacefully on his bed and was unaware of his mother wiping her tears away as she placed the book back on the nightstand. She brushed a stray strand of hair away from his face and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry, anak ,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry... I’m sorry…” were the words she repeated over and over again with her cheeks drenched in tears. The house felt big and hollow, and every wall felt they were closing in. The woman could only cry softly as she cradled her sleeping son.
November 28, 1981. That terrible day.