Coffee, Lies and My Student's Dad

Elara Dwijaya The digital clock on the wall read 06:15, blinking with a rhythmic indifference that matched my pulse. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I stepped into the dining room. Morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long, pale shadows across the mahogany table—a piece of furniture that always felt too large for just three people who barely knew how to speak to one another anymore. The air smelled of jasmine tea and expensive toast, but underneath the aroma lay the distinct, metallic scent of tension. It was the kind of atmosphere that warned you the day was already ruined before you’d even taken your first sip of caffeine. My father sat at the head of the table. The newspaper was spread out before him, but his eyes weren't moving. His index finger tapped against the polished wood. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound chipped away at my appetite like a chisel on stone. My Mother sat on his right, scrolling through her phone with one manicured hand while the other absentmindedly touched her perfect chignon. She didn't look up. In this house, eye contact was a currency we couldn't afford to spend. I pulled out the chair opposite them. My work bag hit the floor with a soft thud. I reached for a slice of toast, determined to be invisible. If I moved slowly enough, maybe I could fade into the wallpaper. I chewed silently. Just five more minutes. Then I could escape. But Father lowered the newspaper. Just an inch. Enough to reveal eyes that looked tired, defeated, and desperate for a target. "Elara," he started, his voice gravelly. "How much longer are you going to play pretend with this little school hobby? It’s been three years." The toast turned to sawdust in my mouth. God. It isn’t even seven in the morning. I placed the bread back on the porcelain plate with deliberate care. I took a breath, holding it in my chest to keep the sudden flare of anger from scorching my throat. "Dad, we’ve discussed this. It’s not a hobby. It’s my career. I’m a teacher." He folded the newspaper aggressively, the crisp paper crinkling loud in the silence. "Think about it, Elara. Look at the salary difference. Look at your cousins. You’re wasting your potential on—" "I’m going to be late," I cut in, standing up. The chair legs screeched against the marble, a harsh sound that made Mother wince. "Excuse me." I grabbed my tea, downed it in one burning gulp, and turned my back on them. "Elara! Don't walk away when your father is speaking!" Mother’s voice was sharp, piercing through the room like a shattered glass. "We are trying to help you! Do you know how embarrassing it is when Mrs. Gunawan asks what you do for a living?" I didn't stop. I didn't turn around. My shoulders tightened, rising toward my ears as I marched to the front door. The heavy oak slammed shut behind me, cutting off her shrill complaints about social standing and wasted tuition fees. Blam! Outside, the air was breathable again. I sucked in oxygen as if I had been underwater for hours. My hands trembled slightly as I unlocked my car. Once inside the driver’s seat, silence wrapped around me. Real silence. Not the loaded, weaponized silence of the dining room, but the peaceful quiet of solitude. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel, closing my eyes. They would never understand. To them, happiness was a balance sheet. To me, it was survival. • • • Thirty-five minutes later. The suffocating weight of my surname evaporated the moment my tires hit the asphalt of the school parking lot. Chaos. Beautiful, unscripted chaos. Children were sprinting across the courtyard, their uniforms already untucked, backpacks bouncing against their small frames. Parents stood by the gates, waving goodbye with genuine smiles—a stark contrast to the frozen tableau I had just left. "Morning, Ms. Ela!" I waved back at a group of second graders. This was my kingdom. Here, I wasn't the disappointing daughter of a failing dynasty. I was just Ms. Ela. Pushing open the door to the staff room, I was greeted by the smell of marker ink, old paper, and cheap instant coffee. It was the best smell in the world. Saskia popped up from behind a stack of worksheets, looking like she’d already consumed four espressos. "Morning, Sunshine," she chirped. "You look like you chewed on a lemon for breakfast." "Standard menu at the Dwijaya residence," I muttered, dropping my bag at my desk. "Side of guilt, tall glass of passive-aggression." "Delicious." Saskia grinned, grabbing a stack of books. "Ready to mold young minds?" We were walking toward the corridor when a small boy came barreling toward us, his tie skewed sideways, panic written all over his face. "Ms. Ela! Ms. Ela!" "Slow down, kiddo," I said, catching him before he tripped. "What's wrong?" "Lyra hit Gafa!" Saskia and I exchanged a look. My eyebrows shot up. Lyra? The quietest, sweetest girl in class 1A? "Where?" I asked, already moving. "In front of the class!" We picked up the pace. The usual laughter in the hallway had died down, replaced by the distinct, jagged sound of a child crying. A small crowd had formed. I pushed through gently. Lyra stood there, rigid as a board. Her small fists were clenched at her sides, her face flushed red. Opposite her, Gafa was sobbing, clutching his arm. "Lyra, honey..." I knelt down, leveling my eyes with hers. Saskia immediately moved to manage the crowd, her voice calm but authoritative. "Why did you hit him?" I asked softly. Lyra didn't speak. Her lips trembled, and her large, pale gray eyes were swimming with tears she refused to shed. She looked so small, yet so incredibly fierce. "Gafa started it," a brave little girl named Gita piped up from the sidelines. She pointed an accusing finger at the sobbing boy. "He told Lyra she was pathetic because she doesn't have a mommy." Thud. My heart dropped into my stomach. The hallway went dead silent. I closed my eyes for a second, exhaling a shaky breath. Kids could be the most honest creatures on earth, and also the cruelest. I turned to Gafa. "Is that true?" Gafa sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I... I was just joking, Ms. Ela..." "Joking is when everyone laughs, Gafa," I said, my voice firm but not shouting. "If someone is hurt, it's not a joke. It's bullying." I looked back at Lyra. I saw myself in her—the pressure, the loneliness, the need to defend a fragile heart with a stone wall. "Lyra," I whispered. "You have to apologize for hitting him. We use words, not hands. Okay?" She looked at her shoes, scuffing the toe against the floor, before nodding. The apology was mumbled, but it was there. Gafa apologized too, looking suitably ashamed. Crisis averted. But the day was far from over. • • • 12:30 PM. The classroom was empty, save for the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun. Gafa had been picked up by his mother, who apologized profusely for her son’s mouth. Now, it was just Lyra. She sat at her desk, swinging her legs, staring at the blackboard. I watched her from my desk. She was a beautiful child—fair skin, those haunting gray eyes, and dark hair that fell in soft waves. Clearly mixed heritage. I had never met her parents. It was always a driver or a nanny. But after the punch, I had insisted on a parent meeting. Creak. The classroom door opened. Saskia leaned in, looking exhausted but still vibrating with energy. She walked over to Lyra and ruffled the girl's hair. Lyra beamed, the earlier darkness vanishing instantly. "Dad isn't here yet?" Saskia asked, leaning against my desk. "On his way, apparently," I replied, organizing the attendance sheet. "Good afternoon. I'm Lyra's father." The voice was a low baritone. Calm. Deep. It vibrated through the floorboards and settled right in the base of my spine. Saskia and I turned toward the door in unison. Thump. A man stood in the doorway. He wasn't what I expected. I expected a suit, a tie, maybe a potbelly and a receding hairline. Instead, I was looking at a man who seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room just by existing. He was tall, wearing a simple black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that looked like they were carved from marble. "Daddy!" Lyra launched herself off the chair. The man moved with a fluid grace, crouching down instantly to catch her. His face, which had been stoic and unreadable a second ago, softened into something incredibly warm as he hugged his daughter. Saskia elbowed me in the ribs. Hard. "Holy hell," she whispered, her eyes wide. "You didn't tell me he was a supermodel." I couldn't answer. I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.