ChiCuapCuap~

Sahur hari ketujuh. Seperti biasa, aku bangun pukul 02.30 WIB untuk menyiapkan sahur untuk orang-orang rumah. Membangunkan suami yang tidur beda kamar, pindah ke kamarku untuk menjaga anak yang sedang tidur pulas.

Setengah jam di dapur, tiba-tiba perutku mulas. Aku ke kamar mandi sebentar. Baru saja keluar, langsung diteriaki dengan muka masam. Katanya dia manggil-manggil aku, tapi aku tidak menjawab dan dicari tidak ada. Seolah-olah aku sengaja menghilang.

Kupikir anak kami kenapa-kenapa. Ternyata karena pampers bocor, tembus ke kasur. Dan yang bikin dadaku sesak, dia lebih sibuk mencariku ke sana kemari daripada langsung membersihkan kasur yang kena pipis. Lalu marah-marah karena katanya kelamaan mencariku, jadi pipisnya merambah ke mana-mana. Gimana, gimana? Kalau dari awal langsung dibereskan, selesai. Kenapa harus ribet mencariku dulu? Memangnya mengurus kasur basah tidak bisa sendiri? Toh pada akhirnya, setelah bertemu, tetap saja dia yang membersihkan kasur dan aku yang mengurus anak, mengganti pampers dan pakaiannya yang sudah basah. Jadi sebenarnya marahnya untuk apa?

Untung semua urusan dapur sudah hampir selesai. Orang-orang rumah tetap bisa sahur dengan tenang. Sementara aku? Bisa sahur atau tidak, sepertinya bukan urusan siapa-siapa. Anakku minta makan jatah sahurku, aku berikan tanpa pikir panjang.

Insyaallah menahan lapar itu mudah. Jauh lebih mudah daripada menahan emosi yang rasanya seperti diremas-remas setiap pagi.

There is always a first time for everything in this world. Not all of them are beautiful. Not all of them are meant to be remembered fondly. Still, they find their way into our lives and ask to be carried. I remembered the most uneasy feeling this month.

---

That afternoon, we gathered in the living room like we usually did. Nothing felt unusual. Our child, only two years old sat nearby with a snack in hand, doing what toddlers do best: playing, exploring, testing limits.

I had just finished work. My body was heavy, so I lay down, letting the fatigue settle into my bones. He was tired too. Tired of something I still struggle to name. Sometimes I wonder how exhaustion can be so loud even when days seem empty, but I kept that thought to myself. Our child began tossing bits of food around, laughing. A warning was given. Then another. The warnings didn’t work. Children rarely understand urgency the way adults want them to.

And then something happened, sudden, sharp, and completely unexpected.

A brief flash of pain. Not the kind that lasts on the skin, but the kind that shocks the system. I froze. My mind went quiet. Anger filled the room, directed at me, telling me to pay attention, to do better, to be more alert. I remember thinking, that we were both there. But the thought stayed unspoken. Silence felt safer than words in that moment. Tears came without permission. Not from pain, but from shock. From disbelief. From the realization that exhaustion, when it spills over, can cross lines before anyone realizes they are there.

Almost immediately, regret followed. Words of apology came quickly, clumsily, as if they could rewind time. But something had already shifted inside me.

I picked up my child and went to the kitchen. Not dramatically. Just instinctively. Distance felt necessary. I was afraid, not of what had happened, but of what could happen if we stayed in that space together. The rest of his words faded into noise. My ears rang, then went strangely numb. Maybe that was my mind protecting itself.

That night, the apologies returned, again and again. I said I forgave him. And I meant it, in the way someone chooses peace over conflict. But forgiveness, I learned, does not immediately erase fear. Since then, a quiet unease follows me during the smallest moments. Especially when our child eats. Especially when things get messy. A part of me stays alert, bracing for something I hope will never come again.

---

There are still many unfinished tasks from last year. Some are waiting patiently. Others I avoid, not out of laziness, but because energy is a limited thing.

Well, January didn’t give me many beautiful memories. But it gave me awareness of limits, of fatigue, of moments that should never repeat themselves. And maybe that awareness is enough for now.

There are things in life that arrive without warning. Sometimes they bring joy, other times, they knock the breath out of you. In early 2024 just before Ramadan, a month usually awaited for its calm and clarity. I received news that made my knees feel weak.

My husband told me he had been quietly laid off.

And at that moment, we had just welcomed a newborn into our little world.

In the midst of the bliss of becoming new parents, in the middle of feeling our tiny family finally complete, our main source of income vanished. It felt as though we had just learned to stand, only for the ground beneath us to shift without mercy.

At that time, the industry was swept by the so-called Tech Winter, a wave that hit the technology world hard. Startups and tech companies were cutting costs, freezing hiring, and conducting mass layoffs. Investor funding slowed, digital growth stagnated, and many companies were forced to downsize. It wasn’t just happening abroad, Indonesia felt the tremors too.

My husband became one of its casualties.

And that’s when reality struck: we still had to live, still had to pay for daily needs, still had to give the best we could for our baby, even though our main income had suddenly disappeared. I wasn’t given much time to cry or panic. After my husband lost his job, I slowly realized that I had to step into a new role, one I had never truly imagined for myself. I had to become the backbone of the family.

The role didn’t come with ceremony or congratulations. It came with a weight on my chest that grew heavier, little by little.

Being a new mother already drained so much, sleepless nights, changing hormones, learning to understand a tiny human. And then came the sudden financial pressure. It felt like carrying a burden far too heavy for shoulders still learning how to be strong.

We both learned that a household isn’t only about sharing joy, it’s also about sharing the weight, even when the load isn’t always evenly placed.

Becoming the family’s backbone was never a title I sought. But when life pushed it into my hands, I learned to wear it slowly. Each day, a little more familiar. Each day, a little stronger.