The rattling of the old Singer sewing machine inherited from her late mother was the only rhythm accompanying Aira that afternoon.
Inside the four-by-five-meter rented house on the outskirts of the village, the scent of wet cotton fabric mingled with sewing machine oil, becoming the air she breathed every day.
Aira stopped pedaling. The needle came to a halt directly above the emerald green kebaya fabric. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, then gently stroked her swollen belly, now beginning to show beneath her loose duster.
Six months. Her unborn baby was already six months old. An age that was becoming increasingly difficult to hide beneath loose clothing.
“Be patient, sweetheart. Auntie Lisa’s clothes will be finished soon. Then we can buy rice and milk,” Aira whispered softly, trying to send warmth to the tiny life inside her.
*CRASH!*
The warped wooden door of her house was shoved open roughly without a knock. Aira jumped in surprise.
A stout middle-aged woman, her regular customer for the past three months, stood in the doorway with a flushed face. Behind her, two other neighbors peered inside, their strange expressions impossible for Aira to read.
“Mrs. Lisa? What’s wrong? Please, come in—”
“Don’t bother with the small talk, Aira!” Mrs. Lisa cut her off sharply. Her shrill voice sliced through the afternoon silence. The woman stepped forward and immediately snatched the emerald green kebaya fabric that had just been half-finished on the table.
“Wait, Mrs. Lisa! Be careful, the thread hasn’t been secured yet—”
“Where’s my other piece of brocade fabric? Give it back right now!” Mrs. Lisa rummaged through the pile of fabric beside the sewing machine without permission.
Aira’s heart pounded. Confusion spread through her entire body. “Mrs. Lisa, what’s really going on? The kebaya only needs a few more sequins sewn on. I promised it would be ready for pickup tomorrow morning—”
“I said I don’t want it anymore!” Mrs. Lisa snapped. Her hand found the roll of pink brocade fabric belonging to her family. “Return the two hundred thousand rupiah deposit I gave you last week. Now!”
Aira stood frozen. Her gaze shifted to the two neighbors outside the door, who were now whispering to each other while pointing toward her house.
“But, Mrs. Lisa... I already cut the fabric to your measurements. I used the deposit to buy thread and lining...” Aira’s voice trembled as she pleaded.
“I don’t want to hear it! Just give me my money back!” Mrs. Lisa looked Aira up and down, then let her eyes linger on Aira’s swollen belly. The warmth the woman had once shown her was now replaced by overwhelming disgust.
“I don’t want to wear clothes made by a woman like you. I’m afraid I’ll catch your disgusting behavior!” Mrs. Lisa sneered cruelly.
*THUD!*
The words struck Aira in the chest, leaving her struggling to breathe.
Without another word, her hands trembling violently, Aira felt around in her pants pocket. She took out a small cloth wallet, pulled out the last two hundred-thousand-rupiah bills—money she had set aside to buy rice and vitamins the next day—and handed them over.
Mrs. Lisa snatched the money without a word of thanks, roughly folded her fabrics, then turned and left, loudly muttering to the neighbors outside, “What a fraud. She claimed she was a widow whose husband had died, but apparently...”
The sound of their footsteps faded into the distance, leaving Aira standing frozen in the middle of the room.
Silence surged back in. But this time, it felt suffocating.
Aira stared at her old sewing machine. The green thread on the needle had snapped from the rough tug earlier. Just like her hopes that afternoon, suddenly shattered into pieces.
Suddenly, a powerful crushing sensation struck her upper abdomen. Not the lower belly where her baby was, but an intensely sharp burning pain in her upper stomach.
“Nghh...”
Aira grimaced. Her breath caught. She clutched her chest and dropped to her knees on the cold cement floor. Cold sweat instantly dampened her temples. This pain... this strange pain that had been tormenting her more and more often lately whenever she reached the peak of stress.
Aira squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her own shirt in the increasingly dusty darkness of the house, enduring a pain she could tell no one about.