Chapter 5 — The Night That Was Never Explained

That night was supposed to be quiet.

I had already changed into my pajamas and was sitting on the edge of my bed, brushing my hair with slow, familiar movements—the way I always did before going to sleep. From my bedroom window, the night air drifted in, carrying the damp scent of wet earth. Bandung nights were often cold, but that night, the air in my room felt strange—too still.

Then I heard the sound of glass shattering.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to make my hand freeze mid-motion. The brush hovered in the air. I held my breath.

A few seconds later, more sounds followed. Noise. Rushed footsteps. Something being moved roughly. And then—voices raised too high.

I swallowed.

The sounds were coming from downstairs.

At first, I told myself I must have imagined it. Maybe it was the television. Maybe something had fallen. But the noise grew clearer. Too clear to ignore.

It was my parents.

My chest suddenly felt tight. My heart began to race. I stood up slowly and walked toward my bedroom door, pressing my ear against it.

This wasn’t a normal conversation.

It was an argument.

There was anger in their voices. Desperation. A trembling edge that sounded like someone trying not to cry. And for some reason, those voices felt both unfamiliar and deeply familiar.

Like something I had heard before.

Fear spread through my body, cold and fast. The shouting made my stomach twist. My hands began to shake for no clear reason. I stood there for too long, until I realized my legs felt weak.

Why are they fighting?

Since I came home from the hospital, everything had seemed fine. My parents looked close. They talked easily at the dinner table, laughed together, even joked like old friends. There were no signs that anything was wrong.

Father didn’t always come home at night. There were evenings when I fell asleep without hearing his car pull into the garage. But Mother always said the same thing in a calm voice,

“Your father has business out of town.”

I believed her.

I always did.

That night, I wanted to go back to bed. To pull the blanket over my head and pretend I hadn’t heard anything. I wanted to be a good child—one who didn’t interfere in adult matters.

But my feet moved before my mind could stop them.

Quietly, I opened my bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. It felt darker than usual. The dim lights cast long shadows along the walls.

Each step toward the stairs felt heavy.

The sounds from below grew clearer. I could hear sobbing. I could hear things falling. I could hear someone breathing hard—like a person too exhausted to keep shouting, yet too hurt to stay silent.

My hand tightened around the cold stair railing as I descended one step at a time, careful not to make a sound.

When my feet reached the ground floor, the scene unfolded before me.

The living room was in chaos.

A vase lay shattered on the floor. Picture frames were crooked, their glass cracked. Small ornaments that were usually neatly arranged were scattered everywhere, as if struck by anger that could no longer be contained.

My mother was sitting on the floor.

Her crying was restrained, but her shoulders shook violently. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her eyes red, her face wet with tears. She looked small in the middle of the large room, as if all the strength she usually carried had suddenly vanished.

I stopped a few steps away from her.

She looked up when she noticed me.

Our eyes met. For a brief moment, I saw something I had never seen on her face before—not anger, not just sadness, but exhaustion. A deep exhaustion. The kind that felt like it had been carried for a long time.

She didn’t speak right away.

Her sobs hadn’t fully stopped. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to breathe evenly.

I glanced around the room.

My father wasn’t there.

The question formed in my mind, but it never reached my lips.

Where is Father?

I walked closer and sat down beside her. My knees touched the cold floor. I didn’t know whether I should hug her or not. I didn’t know what to say. So I stayed silent, waiting.

Maybe I hoped she would explain everything. Maybe I hoped she would tell me this was just a misunderstanding. Or that everything would be fine.

But she said nothing.

Between us, there was only a heavy silence.

Two housemaids appeared from the direction of the kitchen. They exchanged a brief glance, then, without a word, began cleaning the broken glass. A broom brushed softly against the floor. Shards were gathered carefully, one by one.

No one asked questions.

No one explained anything.

Time passed without sound. I didn’t know how long we sat there. Five minutes. Ten. Or longer. It felt like an entire night.

I stared at the floor, watching the light reflect off the remaining glass fragments. The small glimmers hurt my eyes.

My chest still felt tight.

There was something about this scene that felt… familiar. Like a faint déjà vu. Like a fragment of a dream I couldn’t remember clearly.

Finally, Mother took a long breath.

She wiped her face with trembling hands and turned to me. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“Lily,” she said.

I looked up.

“Go to sleep,” she continued gently, though her voice sounded fragile. “You have school tomorrow.”

There was no explanation.

No story.

Just those words.

I nodded slowly. My head felt heavy, but my body obeyed. I stood up hesitantly and glanced back at Mother one last time. She was still sitting there, alone among the remnants of the mess.

I wanted to say something. Anything. But the words felt stuck in my throat.

With slow steps, I climbed the stairs again.

Each step felt farther than before. The hallway welcomed me back with silence. When I entered my room and closed the door, the sounds from downstairs disappeared completely.

I sat on the edge of my bed.

The light was still on.

I didn’t turn it off right away.

For some reason, that night felt far too quiet for darkness.

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