"Okay. I'll be there in about forty-five minutes. I'm on my way from Central Jakarta." I replied to Sinta's message.
"I'm just about to head out too. I already reserved the restaurant under my name."
I haven't seen Mom in over a month. The last time I met her was a month ago when I first arrived in the land of Unity in Diversity, where she and Sinta picked me up at the airport. Dad couldn't make it. As usual, he had business matters to attend to. Unless it's something truly special, like my bachelor's and master's graduation ceremonies, he postpones all business affairs to attend.
Dad's busy schedule has created a distance between Sinta, me, and him. He often travels, so it's usually just the three of us at home. Sometimes Mom accompanies us, and sometimes Sinta and I join him during school holidays, turning it into a family vacation. Even then, Dad is often busy with work.
Sinta and I were actually quite close to Dad when we were kids. But as we reached adolescence, Dad started spending less time with us. He became preoccupied with expanding Grandpa's business, which made him stricter with us. However, his strictness was different between the two of us. While we both faced harsh, piercing words, Sinta never experienced physical punishment. In contrast, I, being his only son and the eldest, wasn't as fortunate. If I misbehaved or made a mistake, his hands and feet would land on my stomachâreal punches and kicks.
You can imagine it: back then, I stood at 172 cm tall, bare-chested, standing at ease, ready to receive blows from a 185 cm tall, athletic man. Three punches, three kicks. The fear and anxiety mixed inside me. I tightened my abdomen, hoping to lessen the pain, but it didn't help.
The more blows I received, the deeper the pain struck my solar plexus. The final spinning kick sent me flying three meters back. After that, I went straight to the bathroom, accompanied by Sinta, where I vomited.
During the punishment, Mom and Sinta could only watch sympathetically. They couldn't intervene or stop it. Mom had already discussed alternative punishments, but Dad was adamant in his belief that physical discipline was the best way to raise his son. This approach was inherited from Grandpa. The more mistakes I made, the harsher the punishment became.
Looking back, I was indeed rebellious. But no matter how rebellious, I never touched cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, or engaged in free sex. Over my middle and high school years, I received around ten punishments for various violations. Bad grades, Sinta's bad grades (I got punished for failing as a big brother), fights with classmates, fights with teachers, Sinta coming home late (again, for failing as a big brother), Sinta going missing (this event made her more mature), skipping school, participating in street fights, wasting pocket money, and the worstâarguing with Mom until she cried.
For that last offense, Dad really beat me up. Three broken ribs, two knocked-out teeth, a swollen upper lip, a split lower lip, and a dark bruise on my left eye. I had to endure home treatment with a private doctor arranged by Dad for a week. Three days to recover physically, seven days to recover mentally. Even though I was given a chance to fight back like in a match, I was no match for a man skilled in Muay Thai, while I was just a novice brawler.
While lying weak and struggling to move, Mom still cared for me like a truly loving mother. Watching her feed me, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. How could I be so heartless as to hurt the feelings of a woman so gentle, who had given birth to and raised me with her love? Even when I was wrong, Mom never spoke harshly or cursed. She always advised us kindly and gently.
Ignoring the pain, I got up from the bed and kissed her feet, crying, and begging for her forgiveness. I vowed never again to be a Wisnu who hurt the woman who had carried him for nine months.
"Of course, I forgive you, my child. You're my son." Truly, a mother's heart is as vast as the ocean, or perhaps even greater.
***
Finally, I arrive at the restaurant, marked by a sailboat logo. I park the car and head inside. Just as I'm about to enter, someone taps me from behindâa woman standing at 167 cm tall.
"Did you just arrive, Sin?"
"Yes."
Then, Sinta and I enter. The waiter guides us to the reserved table.
"Where are Mom and Dad, Sin?"
"They're still on the way. They should be here in about ten minutes."
I head straight to the bathroom to wash my face. It wouldn't be good for Mom and Dad to see my puffy eyes. They'd definitely ask questions.
Oh, one more thing I forgot to mention earlier: no matter how busy Dad is, he always shows up for something special. Including punishments. Somehow, he always knew when I was in trouble, even though Mom and Sinta tried their best to keep it from him so that I wouldn't be punished for the fourth, fifth, or umpteenth time. Despite this, Dad never got angry at Mom. He simply explained that it was essential for my personal growth.
I once overheard him say something to Mom, just after I had been punished and was walking unsteadily with Sinta's help.
"Julia, this is necessary. Don't worry. I'm not going to kill him. He's my son too. I want him to become a strong person."
Mom always told us that Dad had his own way of loving us.
Hmm. I came to realize that Mom and Dad played the roles of good cop and bad cop. And they did it well, especially Mom. She was the key figure in that family chess game. Sinta and I became independent in our respective professions because of themâI, a financial consultant, and Sinta, a professional musician. Dad was the bad cop, Mom was the good cop.
Thank you, Ma, Pa. I love you both.