A knock at the door made Ian jump. "Ian?" His mother's voice, impossibly young, unmarked by the years of worry he'd put her through. "Breakfast is ready. You don't want to be late for your first day."
First day. The words hit him like a physical blow. Junior high school. The beginning of the educational journey that would shape everything that came after. The starting point of all his future failures.
He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came. How could he face her? How could he look into eyes that still believed in his potential, knowing exactly how thoroughly he'd waste it?
"Ian?" The concern in her voice was immediate, maternal radar picking up distress. "Are you feeling sick?"
"I'm..." His voice cracked, too high, too young. "I'm fine, Ma. Just... nervous."
A pause. Then the door opened, and there she was.
Ibu Ratna stood in the doorway, forty-three years old instead of the sixty he remembered, her hair still more black than gray, her face unlined by the disappointments he'd heap upon her. She wore a simple house dress, her hands still dusted from the morning's cooking.
She was beautiful in a way he'd forgotten, in a way his teenage self had never noticed.
"You look pale," she said, stepping into the room with the easy authority of motherhood. "Did you sleep badly?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. Sleep? He'd died. He'd been murdered by a desperate man on a pedestrian overpass, and somehow, impossibly, he'd woken up seventeen years in the past. But how could he explain that to this woman who still believed her son might become someone worthwhile?
"Just a bad dream," he managed.
Ibu Ratna sat on the edge of his bed, her weight causing the mattress to dip. Without thinking, she reached out and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, checking for fever with the same gesture she'd used when he was small and legitimately sick.
The touch nearly undid him.
He'd forgotten this. The simple, uncomplicated love of a mother who hadn't yet learned to be disappointed in him. The way she'd touch his face without hesitation, without the careful distance that had grown between them over the years of his failures.
"No fever," she murmured, but her eyes remained concerned. "But you look... different. Older somehow."
If only she knew.
"I'm fine, Ma. Really."
She studied his face with the intensity of someone who'd raised him from birth, who could read his moods in the set of his shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing. "You're lying to me."
The accusation was gentle but firm, and it broke something inside him. Here, in this moment, he was still her little boy. She still believed she could fix whatever was wrong with a warm meal and patient listening.
"I..." He swallowed hard. "I had a dream about the future. About what I might become."
It wasn't entirely a lie.
Ibu Ratna's expression softened. "Oh, sweetheart. You've been worrying too much about starting junior high. Sometimes our minds play tricks on us when we're stressed."
She reached out and smoothed his hair, a gesture so familiar it made his chest tight. "Tell me about this dream."
How could he? How could he tell her that in seventeen years, he'd be living in her house again, unemployed and drowning in debt? That he'd watch her grow old while he remained a child in everything but years? That he'd stand on a rooftop and consider jumping because he couldn't bear to disappoint her anymore?
"I dreamed I was older," he said carefully. "And I... I wasn't the person you hoped I'd become."
Ibu Ratna's hand stilled in his hair. "Ian, look at me."
He met her eyes, and saw not disappointment but fierce love.
"You are thirteen years old," she said firmly. "You're starting junior high today. You have your whole life ahead of you. Whatever you dreamed, it was just your fears talking. You are a good boy, a smart boy, and you will become a good man."
The certainty in her voice was like a knife to his heart. She believed it completely, this woman who'd raised him, who'd sacrificed for him, who'd never stopped believing in him even when he'd given up on himself.
"What if I'm not?" The words escaped before he could stop them. "What if I disappoint you?"
Ibu Ratna's expression grew tender. "Oh, my sweet boy. You could never disappoint me. Not really. You are my son. That is enough."
She pulled him into a hug, and he allowed himself to be held like the child he appeared to be. She smelled like jasmine and cooking spices, like home and safety and everything he'd lost without realizing it.
"Even if I fail?" he whispered into her shoulder.
"Even if you fail," she said firmly. "Even if you make mistakes. Even if you don't become rich or famous or anything the world thinks is important. You will always be my son, and that makes you precious."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like a weight settling on his chest. Because he knew, with the terrible clarity of hindsight, exactly how much pain he'd cause this woman. How many nights she'd lie awake worrying about him. How many times she'd defend him to relatives who whispered about his failures.
"Ma," he said, pulling back to look at her. "Do you ever regret having children?"
The question seemed to startle her. "Regret? Ian, you and Sari are the best things I've ever done. Why would you ask such a thing?"
"What if... what if we cost you too much? What if taking care of us kept you from having the life you wanted?"
Ibu Ratna cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away tears he didn't realize had fallen. "Silly child. You didn't cost me a life. You gave me one."
She kissed his forehead, a gesture so familiar it made his heart ache. "Before you and Sari, I was just Ratna. A girl who didn't know what she wanted. But being your mother? That taught me who I was. That taught me what love really means."
"Even when we're difficult?"
"Especially then," she said with a smile. "Easy love isn't love at all. It's just... convenience. Real love is choosing to keep loving someone even when they're being impossible."
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs, followed by the appearance of an eight-year-old tornado with pigtails and a gap-toothed grin.
"Ian!" Sari burst into the room with the boundless energy of childhood. "Mama says you're sick! Are you dying? Can I have your room if you die?"
"Sari!" Ibu Ratna scolded, but there was laughter in her voice.
"What? It's a good room! It has the window with the best view!"
Ian stared at his sister, this tiny version of the woman who'd saved his life with a phone call. At eight, she was all knees and elbows and fierce curiosity, her hair in perpetual disarray despite their mother's best efforts.
"I'm not dying," he said, his voice catching slightly.
"Good," Sari said, climbing onto the bed with them. "Because I made you a picture for your first day and if you died before I could show it to you, it would be super sad."
She thrust a piece of paper at him, covered in crayon drawings that defied any logical interpretation. "It's our family!" she announced proudly. "That big blob is you, the pretty one is me, and those two normal-looking people are Mama and Papa."
Ian studied the drawing, taking in the stick figures holding hands under a bright yellow sun. In Sari's artistic vision, they were all smiling, even the blob that was apparently him.
"It's beautiful," he said, and meant it.
"I know," Sari said with eight-year-old confidence. "I'm really good at art. Mrs. Dewi says I have natural talent."
Ian felt something twist in his chest. He remembered when Sari had stopped drawing, when practical concerns had overtaken creative dreams.
"You should keep drawing," he said suddenly. "No matter what anyone says. Promise me."
Sari tilted her head, studying him with the intensity of childhood. "You're acting weird today. Are you sure you're not sick?"
Before he could answer, another voice called from downstairs. "Ratna! Kids! Breakfast is getting cold!"
"Papa's home," Sari announced unnecessarily, bouncing off the bed. "He's probably tired from driving all night."
Ibu Ratna stood, smoothing her dress. "Come on, both of you. Your father worked the night shift, and he needs to eat before he sleeps."
Ian hesitated. Seeing his mother again had been overwhelming enough. But his father...
"Ian?" Ibu Ratna noticed his reluctance. "What's wrong?"
How could he explain? How could he tell her that he'd forgotten what his father looked like before exhaustion had permanently settled into the lines around his eyes? That he'd forgotten the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his pride, before years of struggling to make ends meet had worn them both down?
"Nothing," he said, standing on unsteady legs. "I'm coming."
They made their way downstairs, Sari chattering about her drawing and school and a dozen other things that seemed impossibly important to her eight-year-old mind. Ian followed behind, his hand trailing along the banister he'd slid down countless times as a child.
The kitchen was exactly as he remembered, down to the faded floral curtains and the slightly crooked table where they'd shared thousands of meals. And there, sitting at the head of the table with the tired but patient smile of a man who'd worked through the night, was his father.
Bapak Sandro looked up as they entered, his face lighting up with the kind of joy that came from simple pleasures. He was younger than Ian remembered, his hair still thick and dark, though his hands already showed the calluses of someone who worked with them for a living. His motorcycle jacket hung on the back of his chair, the helmet resting on the counter beside him.
"Ah, there's my boy," he said, and Ian's heart clenched at the pride in his voice. "Ready for your first day of junior high?"
Ian approached slowly, cataloging every detail. His father's work clothes, wrinkled from the night shift of driving passengers around the city. The way he'd carefully washed his hands but couldn't quite scrub away the smell of exhaust and city streets. The unconscious way he'd already served the best portions of rice for his children.
"Sit, sit," Bapak Sandro said, patting the chair beside him. "Your mother made nasi kuning. Special occasion food for a special day."
Ian looked at the golden rice garnished with fried shallots and boiled eggs, the small portions of vegetables and fried chicken arranged carefully on each plate. He knew how much this simple feast had cost them, how his parents had probably skipped buying something else so they could celebrate his first day properly.
"Tell me," his father continued, "are you nervous? Excited?"
The question should have been simple, but it hit Ian like a physical blow. The first day of junior high that would begin the chain of events leading to his eventual failure. The start of the academic journey that would end with him disappointing everyone who believed in him.
"I..." Ian's voice failed him.
Bapak Sandro's expression grew concerned. "What's wrong, son? You look like you've seen a ghost."
If only he knew how accurate that assessment was.
"I'm just nervous," Ian managed. "About the future. About... what if I'm not good enough?"
The question hung in the air like a confession. Bapak Sandro set down his spoon and turned to face his son fully.
"Not good enough for what?"
"For you. For Ma. For... anything."
The words came out in a rush, all the fears and failures of two lifetimes bleeding together. Bapak Sandro was quiet for a long moment, studying his son's face with the careful attention of a man who'd learned to read his children's moods during the precious hours he spent with them between shifts.
"Ian," he said finally, his voice gentle but firm. "Look at me."
Ian met his father's eyes, seeing in them the same unconditional love that had shone in his mother's, but tempered with the wisdom of someone who'd worked hard for everything he had.
"You are thirteen years old," Bapak Sandro said. "You're starting junior high today. You have not yet had the chance to fail at anything that matters. But even if you fail at everything you try, you will still be my son. You will still be the boy I carried on my shoulders, the one who used to fall asleep on my chest watching television. That doesn't change."
"But what if I disappoint you?"
Bapak Sandro's expression grew tender. "Oh, my boy. You think our love for you depends on your grades? On whether you become rich or successful?"
He reached out and ruffled Ian's hair, the same gesture he'd made countless times over the years, even when his hands were tired from gripping motorcycle handlebars all night. "I drive a motorcycle for twelve hours a day so you can have opportunities I never had. But that doesn't mean I expect you to become something you're not."
"Then what do you expect?"
"I expect you to be kind," Bapak Sandro said simply. "I expect you to work hard at whatever you choose to do. I expect you to take care of your family when we're old. I expect you to be a good man. That's all."
He smiled, and Ian saw in it all the dreams his father had sacrificed, all the hopes he'd poured into his children instead of himself. "Success isn't about money or status, son. Success is about being someone your family can be proud of. Someone who does right by the people who love him. And you... you already do that."
The simple certainty in his father's voice broke something open in Ian's chest. All these years, he'd been measuring himself against the wrong standards. He'd been so focused on what he hadn't achieved that he'd forgotten what he had.
"I love you, Papa," he said, the words coming out thick with emotion.
"I love you too, son," Bapak Sandro replied, pulling him into a fierce hug that smelled of exhaust and sweat and unconditional love. "More than you will ever know."
They sat like that for a while, father and son, while Sari chattered about her art and Ibu Ratna bustled around the kitchen, packing Ian's lunch for his first day. It was an ordinary morning in an ordinary house, filled with ordinary love.
But for Ian, it was everything. It was the reminder he'd forgotten, the foundation he'd lost sight of, the truth that had been buried under years of self-doubt and society's expectations.
He was loved. Not for what he might become, but for who he was. Not conditionally, but completely. Not temporarily, but forever.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to build a different kind of future on.
As they finally sat down to finish breakfast, Ian looked around the table at his family. His parents, young and hopeful and full of dreams for their children, even as they sacrificed their own comfort for those dreams. His sister, bright and curious and convinced that the world was full of possibilities.
They had no idea what was coming. The struggles, the disappointments, the way life would chip away at their dreams bit by bit. But they also had no idea how much they would mean to each other, how their love would be the constant that carried them through every storm.
For the first time since waking up in this impossible situation, he allowed himself to smile. Not the cold, calculating expression he'd worn in the mirror, but something real and warm and hopeful.
He had been given something precious: the chance to remember what mattered. To see his family through eyes unclouded by failure and disappointment. To understand that love wasn't something you earned through achievement, it was something you were given freely, completely, without conditions.
The future stretched ahead of them, uncertain and full of potential. But this moment, this morning, this simple breakfast shared with the people who loved him most, this was real. This was his.
And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to change everything.
"Come on," his mother said, checking the clock on the wall. "You don't want to be late for your first day."
Ian nodded, standing up with newfound determination. This time, things would be different. This time, he wouldn't just live for himself.
This time, he would be worthy of their faith.