When I was little, I thought money always came from the same places: adults' pockets, drawers, or a palm that would suddenly slip a bill into my hand before I left for school.
It was only after I moved in with Grandma that I learned money could also be born from flour, hot oil, and a back that had been standing for far too long.
Every afternoon, Grandma set up a small table in front of the house. It was actually an old door that was no longer being used. One of its legs was shorter than the others, so she propped it up with a brick. On top, she arranged fried vegetable fritters, fried bananas, stuffed tofu, and cassava sliced paper-thin.
I sat on a short stool beside her, tasked with shooing away flies with a piece of cardboard.
“Don’t get too close to the oil,” Grandma said whenever I stood up.
“I’m grown-up now.”
“Being grown-up doesn’t make you invulnerable.”
She said it while flipping the fried snacks with deft hands. I always watched her fingers. The skin had hardened and was covered in tiny scars, but she never complained. If oil splashed the back of her hand, she would blow on it briefly, then return to work.
Toward sunset, customers began to arrive. Children bought two thousand rupiah’s worth, while adults bought snacks to take home. Grandma knew their faces, knew who liked extra chilies, and knew who often bought on credit.
“I’ll pay tomorrow, Grandma,” a woman said one afternoon.
Grandma smiled. “It’s all right. The children at home must be waiting.”
After the woman left, I asked, “What if she doesn’t pay?”
“If she really can’t yet, then don’t make things harder for her.”
“Then what about us?”
Grandma put the last of the fried snacks into a container. “We still have tomorrow.”
I didn’t understand how tomorrow could be an answer to hungry stomachs that night. But Grandma always managed to make something feel like enough. The little rice we had left was mixed with egg, scallions, and salt. Vegetables that were almost gone were stretched with more water. I accepted everything as a special meal because Grandma served it with a calm expression.
One morning, she woke me earlier than usual. My school uniform lay on the mat. The fabric at the elbows and collar had grown thin. There was a small patch near the pocket, its color different from the original cloth.
“Wear this for now,” she said.
I stared at the uniform. “My classmates will make fun of me.”
Grandma stopped folding the blanket.
“If they laugh at your clothes, that doesn’t mean you’re beneath them.”
“But I’m embarrassed.”
“You’re allowed to be embarrassed. Just don’t let it make you stop going to school.”
She took a needle and thread, then sewed the part that had started to come loose. Her eyes narrowed because the morning light wasn’t bright enough yet. I sat in front of her and suddenly felt sorry for her.
“Why doesn’t Grandma buy a new one?”
The question made her hands stop.
“Because this one can still be worn.”
“For you, too?”
She gave a small smile. “Grandma’s too old to worry about uniforms.”
I lowered my head. At the time, I didn’t yet know that adults often answered with a joke when the real answer was too heavy to give a small child.
At school, I tried to hide the patch. I pulled my bag in front of my body, sat with both hands over the pocket, and never joined the other children when they ran during recess. But on the third day, a boy pointed at my sleeve.
“Did you sew your uniform with a rag?”
Several children laughed.
My face burned. I wanted to run home, but I remembered Grandma’s words: Don’t let embarrassment make you stop going to school.
So I stood up and said, “What matters is that it can still be worn.”
The room suddenly fell silent. I was startled to hear my own voice.
After school, I told Grandma everything. She was counting loose change on the mat. The coins were divided into several small piles: for rice, oil, school expenses, and needs we didn’t know about yet.
“And then you cried?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“But I almost did.”
“It’s all right to almost cry, too.”
She pushed a few coins toward me. “Do you know why people whose lives are easy often laugh at little things?”
I shook my head.
“Because they’ve never learned how hard someone has to work to hold on to that little thing.”
That night, heavy rain fell. Water seeped through one corner of the roof and dripped into an old bucket. Grandma shifted the mat a little to the left so the drops wouldn’t hit me. As a result, her own body was nearly pressed against the damp wall.
“Grandma can move over here,” I said.
“Go to sleep. You have school tomorrow.”
I watched her back in the light of the oil lamp. For the first time, I realized that Grandma always took whatever was left: the smallest portion of rice, the narrowest place to sleep, the oldest clothes, and the shortest rest breaks.
“When I grow up, I’ll buy Grandma a new house,” I said.
Grandma laughed softly. “Don’t make promises that are too heavy.”
“I mean it.”
“Then study hard.”
“I’ll buy you a mattress, too.”
“A mattress?”
“One that’s soft. Big. Grandma won’t have to sleep on the mat anymore.”
She was silent for a long time. Then her hand searched for my head amid the darkness and the sound of rain.
“If you ever have a lot of money,” she whispered, “don’t forget what it felt like to have nothing.”
I nodded, though she might not have seen me.
Years later, when I was truly able to buy a soft mattress and a spacious house, I finally understood that what Grandma most wanted to give me wasn’t money, or a house, or even a comfortable future.
She gave me the memory of struggle.
So that when life became easy, I wouldn’t be ashamed of once coming from a thin mat, loose change, and a uniform mended by the hands of an old woman who never asked for anything in return.
That night, before bed, Grandma covered me first. As usual, she made sure my feet were covered, then pulled the blanket up to my shoulders.
“Go to sleep,” she said.
I closed my eyes.
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside that small house, I clutched the edge of her clothes so she wouldn’t go too far away.
I didn’t yet know that one day I would have everything we could once only imagine. I also didn’t know that when that day came, the one thing I would want most to buy could never be paid for with any amount of money: extra time to let Grandma sleep comfortably beside me.