I

stood outside our house, waiting for friends to arrive. I was a 6-year-old boy.

One of my dad'€™s colleagues appeared on his motorbike. He seemed nervous. He asked if there were any adults in the house. A maid came out, carrying my 2-year-old old brother on her shoulder.

 '€œPak Son had an accident!'€ she shrieked, saying my dad'€™s name. '€œThis is Bu Sri'€™s blood,'€ she said holding a gold necklace, a bracelet and rings covered with blood.

I began crying, even though I didn'€™t know what had happened. My dad and mom had gone to a wedding party, taking my younger sister with them.

Three days later, dad came home with a broken arm and bruises. I overheard his motorbike was smashed. He could only remember waking up at the hospital. From another conversation, I heard that mom had flown off the motorbike and hit the road. My little sister survived.

Mom was in a coma for 14 days. When she returned home, she was a different person, both in mind and body. She used to be so active. Now, she sat in her wheelchair. She looked thin, pale and sad.

The saddest thing, for me, was when I realized that she no longer recognized me. It was as if a stranger had entered the family. She said her name was not Sri. She insisted she had a different name and that she lived under the bridge where the accident had occurred. She had lost her memory. My neighbors thought she was possessed by an evil spirit.

Over the next year, she made physical, mental and emotional progress. She had nerve damage to her left eye, unable to move her cornea. The doctors recommended surgery but she never had the operation.

She had therapy at home from Monday to Friday for almost 10 years. I remember how she used to cry in pain during those 90-minute sessions.

Years later, I had grown up and moved to a different city. I had almost forgotten about mom'€™s eye problem. Sometimes her eye would become painful if she was tired, but she always claimed it would be fine after she took a rest.

During one visit, I took her to an optician. I wanted to buy her new glasses for her pilgrimage to Saudi Arabia. Softly, she requested whether she could have glasses with tinted lenses.

'€œWhy Mama?'€

'€œTo cover my stag-cornea,'€ she whispered, which thundered into my consciousness.

I noticed every detail of her eyes for the first time, after years of ignorance. There was no way to describe the pain that I felt upon realizing that her cornea stayed at the tip of her left eye. I suddenly was sad, as I recalled the accident.

'€œWhy didn'€™t you have the surgery for your eye?'€ I asked, trying not to cry.

'€œThe operation was expensive,'€ she replied. '€œIt would cost Rp 10 million at that time. You, your brother, your sister needed the money more for your education. Mama could endure this condition. Seeing all of you grow up healthily made Mama content.'€

I was speechless. How could I hold back my tears, seeing the person I loved the most, had suffered unselfishly for so many years? In the early 1980s, Rp 10 million was enough to buy a house or a car '€” or to put three children through school.

I did not care if people stared at me in the optician'€™s. I just held her. I felt guilty. I felt that all the love and gifts in the world would not be enough to repay her sacrifice. I just imagined how she suffered for almost 30 years, always saying she would be better after she rested. I knew it was never okay, it was never getting better and that broke my heart.

I was in tears as I wrote about my mom'€™s sacrifice. It'€™s a simple story, but for me there is nothing so great as the sacrifice and the love of a mother. My mom does not need to speak a word about her love for her children. Her love is louder than words.

'€” Hendri Kurniawan