find a way

[WT]

"It's not fair," Galih tries one more time.

"No," you say, because if you can't give your daughter the answer she needs, the least you can offer her is the truth. "None of this is fair, sweetheart. It should be, and it's not. I'm sorry."

"So take me with."

"This isn't a trip for fun, Galih. I'm not even seeing Aunt Naam this week." You stifle it in case she takes it as laughter at her expense, but for a moment, remembering both Galih's and Rizki's fervor to dash out notes before you went to Naam's to work out a schedule for this lockdown, you want to smile. She's never gentle or soft or easy, your sister, but she's won both children's affection as surely as her students' loyalty. They're good for each other. "Someone needs to take things to Grandmother and—"

Galih rolls her eyes. "She's not even gonna want you there. She never wants any of us there."

She tosses that out offhandedly, like an observation not even worth making part of her argument—like it makes no more sense to hurt over this than over the color of the sky—and the rest of your sentence scrapes to a halt in your throat. Kusumo cuts in, his expression firm even as he lifts one hand from the groceries he's packing to gently squeeze one of your own. "Galih Kusumoputri-Raidan, that's enough. We don't handle getting upset by being mean to each other."

Neither of you are stern often. Usually, that means Galih and Rizki know when you mean business and settle themselves down without further intervention; once in a while, it means they decide that whatever they do doesn't matter if they know you don't want to punish them anyway, and you're lucky if only one of them goes on the ensuing unholy rampage. From the way Galih screws up her face, you know which kind of day this is shaping up to be.

You don't blame her. Yesterday Rizki melted down over Kusumo not putting enough peanut butter on his toast, then said at the end of it, soft and ragged, I miss my friends. Both kids have been good sports about this, all things considered, but they're kids, stuck at home for days on end with no clear answers from the Peacekeepers haunting the streets or the announcements playing on repeat every time you try the television. No wonder they're agitated and pent-up, and you can't take it personally that you and Kusumo are the only targets around to take that out on.

That doesn't ease the impact of her absentmindedly throwing the rift between your mother and your children in your face—a rift that, however easily you weigh the consequences of keeping them away from her against the consequences of letting her treat them the way she treated your siblings, however close they are to the rest of both sides of their family, always feels like your fault. Nor does it keep your heart from clenching when she rather more deliberately raises her voice with, "You're being mean! I'm tired of writing notes when Dad gets to see people and I'm tired of being in this stupid house with my stupid family!"

"I don't think you mean that," Kusumo says, still sterner than usual but softening a little in the face of Galih visibly struggling not to cry.

"I do! I do and it's not fair that I'm always stuck here waiting!"

Oh. "Sweetheart, I'm scared too," you murmur, returning Kusumo's squeeze before you pull away your hand to kneel at your daughter's level. She ducks her head to blink back tears as sneakily as she can, which isn't very, and your heart clenches. "I want to stay with you. But your grandparents need some help, so I'm going to help them, and then I'm going to come right home." Her head stays down, but her shoulders relax enough that Kusumo, kneeling beside you as you speak, chances brushing her hair back from her face. She doesn't protest. "Okay?"

"No."

You pause, then admit, "I can't argue with that."

To your relief and surprise alike, that gets the hint of a smile; Kusumo catches it too and outright ruffles her hair this time, and you smile yourself as she ducks her head out of the way and makes a face at him, eyes entirely dry now. "Me either," he says, "but the sooner we let Dad go the sooner he can come home and we can all be a little less not okay, yeah?" That's not as subtle a push as you suspect he wanted it to be; you take a surreptitious glance at the clock and hide a wince—you meant to be gone fifteen minutes ago—while Galih sighs like she's carrying the weight of the world, but nods. "How about you go get Rizki to say goodbye? And we can all decide what to get started for dinner while he's out."

"You're trying to distract me."

"Is it working?" Galih makes a face again, but lets it dissolve quietly. Then she inhales hard enough to lift her shoulders, and Kusumo, sounding like he's trying not to laugh, says, "I said go get, not yell at."

"Fiiine," Galih says in a rush of breath. Then she takes off, a small cloud of hair vanishing into a rapidly fading patter of footsteps; and in her wake it's just the two of you, Kusumo offering you a closed bag and a soft smile.

You press a kiss to the corner of the smile as you take the bag. "I'll give Ayu and Surya your love."

"Thank you." He tilts his head to kiss you properly, if briefly. "They'll be happy to see you."

You know he's right, and you're looking forward to seeing them as well, but all three of you are going to feel his absence. You feel like the wrong person for this as it is. Kusumo is the bold one, the one who stares down teachers in parent conferences until they blink first and refuses to let the world mold him into anything but what he is; you, two decades away from when making it through the day meant measuring your every word, still sometimes feel like you have to ease yourself into breaking rules that only exist in your own head. But if your mother will barely accept help from you and Naam, she certainly won't accept it from Kusumo, and one of you has to stay with Rizki and Galih, just in case.

It's been okay, so far. You've avoided Peacekeepers, or at least avoided the attention of any without bigger fish to fry than one man carrying groceries.

But just in case.

The returning clatter of footsteps tells you that no more of what you have to say will fit in the time you have; you simply take the last few seconds to hold each other, then pull apart when Rizki bounds into the room with a still-subdued Galih trailing behind. You hug them in turn and then together, tell them you love them, tell yourself you don't need to hold on so tight when you'll see them in a few hours; settle your bag's shoulder strap as you stand, kiss Kusumo one more time, murmur, "Salaam alaykum."

Saying goodbye is so routine you could almost feel like you were leaving for work, if not for the heartache laced through every hug and the worry Kusumo can't quite hide behind a steady voice as he answers, "Be safe."

"See you soon," you say, half a prayer in the way every promise is, and you slip out the back door.



Title song is "Love Anyway" by Kina Grannis.