“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Ibu Hot!” her husband, Dika, yelled from the living room, not as a compliment but as a panicked warning. Ibu is hot. Mother is on fire. ibu hot
Again.
Now, “Ibu Hot” meant the thermostat in the apartment was broken again, and she was nursing a baby in the sticky, 32-degree Celsius heat. It meant her temper flared like the curry fire—fast and hot over small things: a spilled milk bottle, a missing sock, Dika’s casual “what’s for dinner?” “What are you doing
He reached over and took the glass from her hand, setting it down. Then he pulled her to her feet, turned her around, and untied her frayed kitchen apron. Mother is on fire
“You’re still her,” he said. “You’re just also on fire. In a different way.”
Dika appeared in the doorway, one-year-old Maya on his hip. “You okay?”