The afternoon sun hung lazily on the western horizon, bathing the neighborhood field in warm orange light. Thomas, who had just turned six at the time, stood with his head tilted back, gazing at the clear blue sky. In his hand, the spool of thread felt rough—the only connection between him and the red kite dancing wildly in the air.
The boisterous laughter of other children sounded like faint background music. For Thomas, the world at that moment had narrowed to a single focal point: the colored paper floating gallantly against the wind.
Suddenly, a hard jerk was felt in his fingers. Snap! The abrasive string broke.
The red kite broke free, drifting unsteadily with the wind current away from the field, heading toward the empty lot where construction debris from renovations was often dumped carelessly.
"Chase it! Chase it!"
The shouts of his friends pierced the air. Thomas ran at the very front, his breath racing, adrenaline flooding his small body. His eyes were fixed upwards on the kite that was starting to swoop down. He forgot about the thorny bushes or the mounds of dirt beneath his feet. He had to get it.
Without looking down, his right foot stomped hard onto an old wooden beam hidden behind the tall grass.
Thud.
There was no sound of shattering. There was only the sensation of a blunt object forcing its way in, piercing through his thin rubber sandal and tearing into his skin. A rusty nail, the length of an adult's index finger, was embedded there.
Thomas staggered, then fell face-first.
"Blood! There's blood!"
The screams of his friends turned into panic. The crowd of boys backed away in fear, seeing the thick red liquid seeping out quickly, wetting the rotting wood.
"It hurts...!" Thomas whimpered. "Mom... Mom...!"
Only that one word came out. When the pain hit, the image of his mother was the only sanctuary he knew. A neighbor who heard the commotion arrived quickly, pulling the nail out with a care that made Thomas scream until he was hoarse. The man then carried Thomas home.
All the way there, Thomas cried, imagining his mother running to greet him at the gate, hugging him, and blowing the pain away.
However, the reality at the doorstep of that six-by-six meter house was different.
At the end of the narrow terrace, a long concrete basin was the center of activity. There, Mom was bending over a pile of neighbors' laundry. The smell of cheap detergent and bleach wafted sharply, drowning out the scent of the warm afternoon. Mom's wet and wrinkled hands looked pale from being submerged in soapy water for too long.
Mom turned, her face flat despite a glint of shock in her eyes upon seeing the neighbor carrying Thomas with his foot drenched in blood.
"Oh my, Thomas," she murmured softly.
She did not spread her arms to hug him. Instead, she stepped back, making way into the cramped living room on the left side of the building. To the right of the living room, separated by a thin plywood partition, was the parents' bedroom. Thomas was seated on a wooden chair in the living room, while Mom hurried to get the medicine box.
Thomas looked around, breathing in gasps. At the far end of the living room was another plywood partition that formed the bedroom he shared with Eben. To the right of their room, a narrow kitchen area was visible, and right next to the kitchen stood the damp bathroom structure.
Mom squatted in front of him. The woman began cleaning the dirty wound with wet cotton. Her movements were nimble, efficient, but cold. She cleaned Thomas's blood just as she cleaned stubborn stains on a customer's shirt.
Thomas looked at his mother's face, searching for eye contact. Searching for pity. But his mother's eyes were fixed only on the wound in his foot. Her brow furrowed, not out of sadness, but as if she were calculating how much cotton and alcohol she would have to use up.
"Hold still," Mom said briefly as she poured the alcohol.
"It stings, Mom..." Thomas sobbed, his body tensing up.
"Just be quiet. It'll get infected otherwise," Mom answered without looking up. There was no stroke on the head, no whispering of comfort. Mom covered the wound with a bandage, tidied up her medical kit, and returned to the pile of laundry in the back without looking back again.
***
Exactly at five in the afternoon, the front door opened. Not with a rough slam, but a slow yet firm push.
Dad was home.
The scent of machine oil and factory dust smelled sharp from his shabby work uniform. The man placed his briefcase on the table with careful movements, as if the table were made of thin glass.
His eyes immediately narrowed when he saw the thick bandage on Thomas's foot.
"What is that? What happened to his leg?!" His voice rose instantly.
"Stepped on a nail, Dad. While playing with a kite," Mom answered from the kitchen. Her voice was audible amidst the sound of running tap water.
Dad sighed deeply. Very deeply. His shoulders slumped, as if a new, unnecessary burden had just been added to all the fatigue on his back. He walked closer, then knelt in front of Thomas. His hand touched the edge of the bandage, turning it slightly to the left and right, inspecting the wound like a foreman inspecting a broken machine.
"Thomas..." said Dad, his eyes staring straight into his son's pupils. "Dad leaves at dawn, comes home in the afternoon, slaving away at the factory... what is that for?"
Thomas lowered his head, squeezing his trousers. "For Thomas, Dad."
"Yes. So you can eat, go to school, and become a successful person." Dad released his grip on Thomas's leg roughly. "And you repay Dad's sweat with this? A wounded leg because of playing kites?"
Dad shook his head slowly. "Do you know? If people see you injured like this, who gets embarrassed? Dad does, Thomas. Dad."
"Sorry, Dad..." squeaked Thomas.
"People will think Dad is incompetent at taking care of you. Dad is already tired of racking his brain at the factory, surely I shouldn't have to come home to the headache of seeing you being this careless? Where is your mind?" Dad pointed at his own temple with an index finger blackened by oil. "Use it, Thomas. Use your brain. Don't just run around mindlessly when you play."
Thomas bit his lower lip, holding back a sob. He realized his wound wasn't about the pain he suffered, but about the loss he caused his father.
The sound of a gunny sack dragging on the cement came from outside. It was Eben, Thomas's ten-year-old brother, who had just arrived on the terrace. His body was thin, his face dull with street dust clinging to his sweat.
Eben lowered the sack filled with plastic bottles in the corner of the terrace, right next to the sink where Mom worked. He stood for a moment, regulating his irregular breathing while wiping his temple with the back of a dirty hand. When he saw his younger brother, Eben smiled broadly—a smile too innocent for a situation this tense.
"Thomas... fell?" asked Eben from the doorway. His voice was somewhat flat, with pauses slightly longer than usual between his words. He stepped into the living room, leaving the smell of the sun and used plastic behind him.
"Yeah," Thomas answered briefly. He looked away toward the plywood wall. There was a feeling of shame spreading hot in his chest every time he saw his brother like that. The smell of trash, the shabby clothes, and that stupid smile. Thomas hated seeing it. He hated it because his friends often mocked Eben, and it made him ashamed.
Dad's eyes shifted from Thomas's wound to the outside, staring at the gunny sack on the terrace. His gaze softened for a moment, full of calculation.
"Eben," Dad called.
Eben immediately stood up straight, his hands clasped in front of his stomach. "Yes, Dad?"
"You are diligent. Dad is happy you took the initiative to help earn extra money. That's good," said Dad.
Eben's eyes sparkled. It was rare for him to hear praise come out of his father's mouth. He wiped his dirty nose with the back of his hand, looking proud.
"But..." Dad's tone turned sharp. His face, which had softened slightly, hardened again like stone. "This afternoon your homeroom teacher called Dad's factory. She said your mother wouldn't pick up the phone. She said your grades are all red. Math, Language, completely destroyed."
The sparkle in Eben's eyes dimmed instantly. His mouth, slightly open before, now shut tight. His hands trembled as he played with the hem of his shirt.
"Don't let scavenging make you forget your main duty," Dad continued. "Dad doesn't want to hear it, you have to fix your grades."
Dad pointed toward the bathroom with his chin.
"Now go shower. Clean yourself up. After that, Dad wants you to sit down immediately and open your books. Read that Math book until you memorize it."
Eben looked hesitant, his eyes moving restlessly left and right. "B-but Dad, Eben is tired... Besides, Eben has trouble... understanding it..."
"Don't make excuses!" Dad cut in coldly. "That's because you're spoiled. Do you think Budi, the neighborhood chief's son, isn't tired? He helps his dad in the workshop too, but he can be smart. Why can he do it, but you can't?"
Eben looked down deeply. He couldn't answer why he couldn't be like Budi. He only knew that studying was difficult. But explaining that to Dad was useless.
"Dad wants to be able to tell stories when gathering with friends that both of Dad's kids are successful. Dad wants you to be smart like Budi. If other people can do it, you must be able to as well. Don't accept defeat."
"Understood, Dad," squeaked Eben softly, then hurriedly disappeared into the bathroom with stumbling steps.
Thomas glanced toward the kitchen. He saw his Mother's back remaining still in front of the sink. Mom heard everything, but the woman chose to be a statue.
"You too, Thomas!"
Dad's voice boomed again, making Thomas startle.
"Look at your brother. Dad never discriminates between you two. Dad demands he study, Dad demands you study too. Don't be lazy just because your leg hurts."
Dad stepped closer, patting Thomas's shoulder. The pat was heavy, pressing his shoulder bone downward.
"Prove that you are not failed children. Be great so Dad can boast about you in front of Dad's friends. Don't embarrass Dad by being stupid and weak."
Dad stood up and walked toward his room, leaving Thomas alone in the gloomy living room. Thomas stared at the bathroom door where Eben had vanished, then glanced at his Mother's back, which remained mute in the kitchen.
I have to be perfect, thought Thomas frantically, his heart beating fast and painfully in his chest. If I make even a small mistake, no one will save me. Dad won't forgive me.