A Mother by Contract
The sun in Singapore doesn’t rise; it just switches on like a fluorescent bulb.
My name is Sari. Back in my village near Solo, the air smells like damp earth and woodsmoke in the morning. Here, it smells like Clorox and the lavender spray Ma’am likes. The first months were for the agent. I was a ghost, working to pay for the right to work.
But now, the money is finally mine.
Seven hundred dollars.
When I saw the numbers on the ATM screen at POSB, my heart did a little deg-degan, my heart beating fast. I didn’t withdraw it all. I stood there in the air-con, thinking of my son, Rizky. He is seven now. In my mind, he is still three, the age he was when I last held him. I send the money back to build a house with real bricks, but sometimes I feel like I am sending my life away, piece by piece, sliding it across the counter to a stranger.
On Sundays at City Plaza, I am surrounded by my sisters. We eat Ayam Penyet and talk loud, laughing a little louder than usuals. We are all mothers, just not to our own children.
In this house, I am the expert on small things. I know that the girl, Chloe, hates the crust on her bread. I know the boy, Lucas, only sleeps if I rub his back in a slow circle. Ma’am is busy. She is a "Career Woman." She buys the toys, but I am the one who knows which dinosaur is Lucas’s favorite when he falls down and scrapes his knee.
Yesterday, it happened.
Lucas was tired. He tripped over a Lego brick and started to cry. I reached for him, and he buried his face in my neck.
"I want Mummy," he sobbed. "Mummy, stay here."
The room went cold. Ma’am was standing at the door, holding her branded handbag. She looked at me—not with anger, but with a kind of sadness that made me want to vanish.
“Lucas, come to Mummy,” she said, a little firmer now.
He didn't want to go. I had to gently peel his small fingers off my shirt. Sabar, I told myself. Sabar. Be patient. You are here to work. Don’t forget.
That night, I called home. Rizky answered.
"Ibu?" he asked. His voice is deeper now.
"Yes, it's Ibu," I said.
"When are you coming back? Grandma says the roof is finished. We have a blue door now."
I looked around my small room. It is a utility room, meant for mops and buckets, but it is my kingdom. On the wall, I have a drawing Chloe made for me. It says I love Sari.
I want to go home to the blue door. But if I go, who will rub Lucas’s back? And if I stay, will my own son even know my face without a phone screen in between?
Ma’am asked me to renew today. She offered fifty dollars more, like it would make the decision simple.
“The children need you,” Ma’am said.
She didn't say she needed me. She said the children did. I am the glue in a house that isn't mine.
I signed the paper.
That night, I closed my eyes and whispered a small prayer in Javanese.
PS This is a work of fiction inspired by real experiences. It reflects the shared realities of many individuals, but does not represent any specific person.
