The Rice That Never Runs Out
“The inheritance I never asked for is the fear of becoming poor.”
It was 11:23 p.m., and Mira was still sitting at the dining table with a calculator in her hand. In front of her lay the store ledger, two supplier invoices, and a cup of coffee that had lost its steam who knew how long ago. The house had been quiet for hours. The fan in the living room made a faint sound on every third turn, while from the children's room came only the hum of the air conditioner.
Mira pressed the calculator button one more time, even though she had already calculated the result three times.
Eighteen million seven hundred sixty thousand rupiah.
That week's sales were down nearly two million from the previous week.
Her brow immediately furrowed. Her hand moved to grab a pen when she heard sandals scraping across the floor down the hall. Rafly appeared with messy hair and dinosaur-print pajamas he was beginning to outgrow. The ten-year-old boy was carrying a sheet of paper.
“Still not asleep?” Mira asked without taking her eyes off the ledger.
“I was. Then I woke up again.”
“You have school tomorrow.”
Rafly nodded. He stood there for quite a while before Mira finally looked up.
“What is it?”
Her son held out the paper. The school was holding a Family Day event Saturday morning. Each class would put on something. Rafly's class was preparing a simple musical performance and games with parents.
“I’m playing the melodica.”
Mira read the date.
Saturday.
Her heart automatically began doing its own calculations. Saturday was the store's busiest day. And it was the beginning of the month, too. Within seconds, her head was filled with the possibility of lost sales, delayed suppliers, and employees recording inventory incorrectly.
“What time?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Until?”
“They said eleven.”
Mira let out a breath.
Rafly quickly added, “It’s okay if you’re busy, Mom.”
That sentence should have made things easier for her. Strangely, instead, it felt like something small dropping to the bottom of her chest.
“I’ll try to make it.”
Rafly gave her a faint smile.
“Really?”
“Yes. Now go to sleep.”
The boy turned away, but before he reached the hall, Mira called after him.
“Fi.”
Rafly looked back.
“Mom works this hard for you kids, too.”
She said it almost automatically, like repeating a sentence she had used so often that she no longer examined its meaning. The boy nodded.
“Yeah, Mom.”
Then he left.
Mira turned her attention back to the number eighteen million seven hundred sixty thousand on the calculator. Suddenly, the number no longer said anything at all.
Mira knew hunger before she knew savings. When she was nine, she once saw her mother scrape the bottom of a rice tin with a plastic cup. The sound of the last grains falling into the pot remained in her memory, like the sound of the first rain on a corrugated metal roof.
That night, Mom cooked rice porridge.
“So there’ll be more,” she said with a smile.
Mira only understood years later that water was the one ingredient they still had available without borrowing money. They ate the rice porridge with salt and sweet soy sauce. Her younger sibling asked for more, and Mom said she was full.
Mira believed her at the time, but the next day she saw her mother's plate, clean on the rack. It had never been used.
There was also the day when the shopkeeper stood in front of their house demanding payment for a debt, speaking loudly enough that two neighbors came outside. Mira hid behind the door while listening to her mother ask for more time until her father received his construction wages.
That afternoon, Mom told her, “Study hard. Don’t live a hard life like I did.”
The advice kept accumulating as she grew older.
Don’t waste money.
Never borrow money.
Don’t depend on other people.
Save your money carefully, and don’t buy things you don’t need.
Work hard and honestly. Don’t waste your money on frivolous things.
And one sentence that stayed with her the longest: “When you don’t have money, people won’t even see you.”
Mira carried it into adulthood. When her friends bought clothes with their first paychecks, she bought half a gram of gold. When she married Arman, she asked for a simple reception and saved the rest of the money as capital. When their small grocery store began turning a profit, Mira opened a second store. Once the second store was stable, she began saving for her children's education. Once the education fund seemed sufficient, she thought about a house. Once the house was paid off, she thought about an emergency fund.
There was always something that wasn't enough yet. Fear was strange. It could keep you hungry even when the cupboards were full.
Two days later, Mira found Rafly's homework notebook on the dining table. She had only meant to move it so it wouldn't get splashed with tea. But the open page made her hand stop. Rafly's handwriting slanted to the right.
Write three things your mother does for you most often.
Underneath, Rafly had written:
1. Pays for school. 2. Buys food. 3. Works.
Mira read the three lines over and over. There was nothing wrong with them. Strangely, she felt as if she were reading a receipt.
“What’s wrong?”
Arman had just come out of the bathroom and saw his wife standing there with the notebook in her hand. Mira showed it to him. He read it, then slowly closed the notebook.
“They’re kids.”
“Why would he answer like this?”
“How else should he answer?”
Mira opened her mouth, but no answer came to her. Arman looked at her for a moment.
“He wrote what he sees.”
Mira immediately took offense.
“So you’re saying I don’t take care of the kids?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Who thinks about all their needs? Tuition, lessons, clothes, food, school savings...”
“Mir.”
Arman's voice wasn't raised. That was exactly what made Mira fall silent.
“I’m only saying Rafly wrote what he sees.”
Mira put the notebook down on the table harder than necessary.
“It’s easy for you to say that. You’ve never had to live wondering what you’d eat tomorrow.”
Arman fell silent. Mira carried her glass into the kitchen. She turned on the faucet far too forcefully.
Three nights later, Rafly left several spoonfuls of rice on his plate.
“Finish it.”
“I’m full, Mom.”
“That’s all the rice you have left.”
“I can’t.”
“Then why did you take so much?”
“I thought I was hungry.”
Mira stared at the rice clinging to the side of the plate. Suddenly, their bright kitchen—with its double-door refrigerator, water dispenser, small oven, and shelves packed with food—vanished from her sight.
What appeared instead was a dented aluminum pot. A plastic cup dipped into a rice tin.
Scrape.
Scrape.
The sound of the last grains of rice falling.
“Finish it, Rafly.”
Her tone changed, and Rafly lifted his head.
“Mom, I really...”
“Some people struggle to find enough to eat, and you’re wasting rice!”
Rafly fell silent, his eyes widening. Mira kept talking, but her voice seemed to come from somewhere very far away.
“You have it so easy! You’ve had everything since you were little. You’ve never known what it feels like...”
“That’s enough.”
Arman rose from his chair, and Mira turned sharply toward him.
“What?”
“He just can’t finish the rice.”
“Then he shouldn’t have taken so much...”
“I said we’ll give him less rice next time.”
Rafly lowered his head. He put one spoonful of rice into his mouth, chewing for a very long time, then took another.
Mira suddenly saw something. Her son wasn't eating. He was afraid.
The spoon in Rafly's hand trembled. Mira had held a spoon like that once. Not when she was hungry, but when she saw her mother angry.
She stood up so quickly that her chair scraped backward.
“That’s enough,” she said.
Rafly looked up.
“You don’t have to finish it. Just put it away. We can make fried rice with it tomorrow.”
The boy didn't answer. That night, Mira didn't calculate the sales. She sat alone in the kitchen after everyone had gone to sleep, staring at the small bowl of leftover rice she had put in the refrigerator. For the first time, she asked herself why a few spoonfuls of rice could make her so angry.
The answer came uninvited. Because to Rafly, it was only rice. To Mira, it was her childhood.
On Sunday, she visited her mother. The seventy-two-year-old woman still lived in the old house, though Mira had renovated the building several years earlier. Only the wooden back door had been kept because Mom refused to replace it.
“It’s still good,” she said every time Mira offered to get her a new door.
Even though its hinges always let out a long squeak. They sat on the porch peeling long beans. Somehow, Mira eventually told her about Rafly.
“Kids these days are so careless with food,” she said. “They leave rice behind. If something gets lost, they just buy another one. They don’t know what it’s like to struggle.”
Her mother smiled as she snapped the end off a long bean.
“You used to be like that, too.”
Mira laughed.
“Me? I never dared.”
“You threw away an egg once.”
Mira frowned.
“When?”
“You were maybe six. The egg fell. You cried so hard you could barely catch your breath because you were afraid I’d be angry.”
Mira didn't remember it, but Mom remembered it clearly.
“Eggs were expensive for us back then. I was angry.” Her hands kept working. “But when I think about it now, I feel sorry for you, too.”
Mira watched her mother's profile.
“Mom, you used to work all the time, didn’t you?”
“What else could I do? If I didn’t work, what would you kids eat?”
“Were you ever tired?”
Her mother gave a small laugh.
“What kind of question is that? Of course I was tired.”
“Why didn’t you ever say so?”
“Who would I have told?”
The long bean snapped between her fingers. After a moment, Mom asked, “Why do you work all the time now?”
“For the kids.”
“There you go. Same thing.”
The answer was simple. Yet something inside Mira felt as if it had been tugged. Her mother had left the house back then because she had no choice. Mira now often left the house even though she had a choice. She looked at the house she had bought back for her mother—the new roof tiles, ceramic floors, and iron fence. She had repaired nearly every trace of poverty in that place. Except for the one she carried home inside herself.
At 8:10 Saturday morning, Mira was already dressed to leave for school when her phone rang.
It was one of the store employees.
“Ma’am, Mr. Dedi is here. The amount of cooking oil delivered doesn’t match the invoice. And the beverage sales rep is here, too.”
“Tell him to wait.”
“Mr. Dedi says he’s in a hurry, ma’am.”
Mira closed her eyes. Rafly's bag was no longer on the table. Arman had taken him earlier because Rafly had to be there at seven.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes. I’m on my way.”
She picked up her bag. Five minutes later, the phone rang again. Mira was already in the car.
A message from Rafly appeared.
Are you coming, Mom?
Her finger hovered over the screen.
Mom has to take care of something at the store for a bit.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
Then the message came.
It’s okay, Mom. Just go to work.
Mira read the sentence until the traffic light turned green and the car behind her honked.
It’s okay.
The same words as the night Rafly had given her the event notice. Her son wasn't even disappointed anymore. Or maybe he had already learned to hide it. Just like she had once done.
Mira pulled over and called the store.
“Ayu.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Tell Mr. Dedi to take a picture of the invoice. Compare it with the goods that came in. If there’s a discrepancy, record it. Don’t sign anything yet.”
“But, ma’am...”
“Can you handle it?”
Silence for a moment.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell the beverage rep to wait for payment until I check everything this afternoon.”
“Yes.”
Mira drew a breath. For the first time, that small decision felt like jumping from a great height.
“I’m not going to the store this morning.”
Then she turned the car around. By the time Mira arrived, the melodica performance was already underway.
She stood at the back of the hall, still out of breath from running in from the parking lot. Dozens of parents' heads filled the seats. Onstage, twelve children played a song, their notes occasionally slipping out of tune.
Mira searched for Rafly's face and found him in the second row. The boy blew into his melodica while staring straight ahead. When the song ended and applause filled the room, he lowered his instrument, his eyes sweeping across the crowd. Then they stopped on Mira.
His expression changed so quickly she almost missed it. His mouth opened slightly. Then a smile appeared. Not a big smile. That was exactly what made Mira's eyes burn.
Rafly only raised his hand, and his mother raised hers in reply. No one knew that between the two of them, something that had been going on for decades had just stopped.
That night, they ate together. Rafly took too much rice again. When his plate was nearly empty, two spoonfuls remained. Mira saw them. The old words rose straight into her throat.
Finish it. Don’t waste rice. Some people struggle to find enough to eat.
She even heard her mother's voice inside those words. Maybe her grandmother's, too. Maybe the sentence was much older than any of them. Rafly watched her carefully.
“Mom, I’m full.”
Mira took a small container from the cupboard.
“Put it in here.”
Rafly blinked.
“What for?”
“We’ll make fried rice with it tomorrow morning.”
The boy poured in the leftover rice. Mira closed the container and put it in the refrigerator. There was no thunder, and the world didn't change. The wound didn't suddenly heal, either. Tomorrow, she might still check her bank account too often. Next month, she might still panic when sales dropped. Every now and then, the voice of her childhood would surely return, reminding her that security could disappear at any moment. But that night, Mira understood something no one had ever taught her.
Her mother had indeed passed down a fear of scarcity. Not because she wanted to hurt Mira, but because that was the only way a woman who had once gone hungry knew how to understand safety. Mira didn't have to hate that inheritance. She simply didn't have to pass it on in the same form.
Before bed, she opened the refrigerator for a moment. The small container of rice sat on the middle shelf, between Rafly's milk and the cut watermelon. Mira smiled. Once, a few grains of rice had meant whether they would eat tomorrow or not. Now the rice would simply become breakfast. And for the first time in her life, that difference felt like enough.