Not all wounds are loud. Some whisper for years.
Some memories don't fade, they stay lit like lanterns in the dark
Christmas at Oma & Opa Haus was always warm. Not warm in temperature, but in the way love fills a room even when no one names it.
Oma & Opa grounded their life in faith. They taught the children early that nothing is impossible if you put God first. Not through fear, demands, but through gentle routine.
Every Sunday, the kids woke early for church. But before that came the sacred ritual: Cartoons
Back then, not many people in the village had a TV. But Oma & Opa had a big one, the kind that hummed before the picture sharpened and often broke into ant-screen static for no reason.
Doraemon. Shinchan. One Peace. Dragon Ball. Ninja Hattori. Chibi Maruko-Chan. A noisy lineup that made mornings feel alive.
Aldi wanted One Piece, while the sisters wanted Chibi Maruko-Chan.
Oma & Opa always found a way to distract him by sending him to the garden to chase crickets or letting him wander between the rows of Oma's beloved Anggrek collection.
She had every kind. White, pink, yellow, orange, purple, red, and even the rare tiger-striped ones.
Aldi remembered how Oma cared for her orchids. Meticulously, tenderly, with full attention, just like when she cared for her grandchildren.
On Sunday mornings when the sisters overslept, Oma & Opa simply let them sleep longer so Aldi could enjoy One Piece in peace.
When Mom and Dad moved next door, the problem quietly solved itself. The sisters migrated there to watch their shows.
After cartoons ritual, they went to church, then came home for lunch:
Ollie's homemade ikan bakar Grilled fish, fish, tender and fragrant with local herbs — and her famous tempe kecap and cah kangkung, a simple stir-fry with garlic that no one else could ever replicate.
Sinterklaas Season
Every early December, the village lit up with an old Dutch tradition: Sinterklaas.
Where parents delivered gifts to the event organizers, and one day with no warning, Sinterklaas and his helpers would appear at your door with bells, laughter, and a large sack to terrify any child.
Oma warned them lovingly all year whenever they lied or misbehaved. "Be good, so before Christmas Sinterklaas will give you presents. Otherwise Zwarte Piet will put you in the sack"
Aldi took this seriously. Very seriously.
When Zwarte Piet teased him were you a naughty boy this year? Aldi straightened up and answered quickly: "No! You can ask Oma & Opa!
The sisters were older. They already suspected it was all a game. But they played along because gifts were gifts,
and magic, even fake magic, was still magic.
Sinterklaas always ended with a gentle reminder:
respect your parents,
take care of your siblings,
and keep faith in God.
Aldi didn’t understand the weight of those words yet. But they tucked themselves into him quietly.
Christmas at Oma & Opa Haus
Before Christmas, Opa always picked a real pine tree for their Christmas tree. Tall, fragrant, a little uneven at the edges because that meant it had character.
They decorated it together in the balcony. Kids painted the pine cone as additional ornaments, Opa put lights and finally the star or angel at the top of the tree. A small ceremony that always ended with laughter.. or tears... or both.
By September, Christmas songs were already everywhere in the village. From radios, from old CDs, or from neighbors practicing choir. It was comforting like a familiar prayer.
Christmas was not complete without food. Oma and Ollie spent time in kitchen preparing everyone's favorites:
🥘 Ayam Rica-Rica — spicy and bright
Ayam rica-rica came out sizzling, its red chili oil glistening under the balcony’s warm lights. The aroma hit first: sharp, citrusy, and thrilling, a mix of lemongrass, lime leaves, bird’s eye chili, garlic, and ginger. The chicken was tender, coated in a fiery sauce that tasted like sunshine and heat, the kind of spice that wakes your whole mouth but still keeps you coming back for more.
🥬 Sayur Pakis Bunga Pepaya — earthy with a gentle bitterness
Sayur pakis, the bright green fern shoots curled delicately like tiny forest spirals, mixed with papaya flower, it carried a light, grown-up bitterness. The kind of taste kids usually reject, but somehow this house made it comforting. Stir-fried with shallots, garlic, and a touch of coconut milk, it tasted like the island itself: earthy, honest, and quietly addictive.
🍖 Sweet Soy Braised Pork — glossy and tender
The sweet soy braised pork was glossy enough to catch reflections, each piece caramelized to a deep chestnut brown. The meat, slow-cooked for hours, melted at the slightest bite, sweet, savory, with the gentle perfume of star anise and cinnamon lingering in the background. It was the kind of dish that reminded you of patience, the kind Opa would describe as “food that takes its time.”
🦇 Paniki — Opa’s bold favorite
Paniki was Opa’s proudest indulgence, a dish not for everyone, but unforgettable if cooked well. Simmered in coconut milk with chili, ginger, and aromatic herbs, the taste was surprisingly rich and smoky, almost like wild game kissed by spice and fire. Opa said it tasted “like the old days,” and he ate it with the same reverence people reserve for memories.
🍢 Ragey — smoky pork satay with homemade sambal
Ragey was the star of every feast: skewers of seasoned pork grilled over charcoal until the edges crisped and the fat sizzled. The smoke wrapped each bite in a deep, rustic flavor, balanced by Oma’s homemade sambal: bright, spicy, and tangy, with just the right kick of calamansi. One bite and the kids would close their eyes, not because it was spicy, but because it was perfect.
Opa and Dad drank cap-tikus, a local liquor. Sharp, fiery, clear as water but warming as lightning. Oma and Mom drank wine. While the kids drowned themselves in soda until the sugar made them hyper and giggly.
Everything was warm. Everything tasted like safety.
⭐ New Year’s Eve Magic ⭐
New Year's Eve was the kind of magic you only experience once in life.
The kids stayed up late, running around the yard with kembang api, sparks glowing against the night. Oma scolded them gently to keep their distance to her lovely orchids garden.
At midnight, fireworks exploded across the village. Colors blooming like flowers in the sky. Stars scattered across the night like confetti, and the world felt big and small all at once.
Aldi didn't know how rare that kind of happiness was. Joy without fear, wonder without weight, a mind unburdened by expectations.
He didn't know it yet, but every New Year's Eve after this would carry a faint longing for a magic he couldn't name yet.
City life & the House that shaped them
Mom and dad were overwhelmed. Demanding kids, a restaurant to build from nothing, bills that stacking faster than they could breath.
Love was present, but tired. Care was there, but drained. Everything felt rushed, stretched, fragile.
And no matter how hard they tried, the house couldn't stay calm.
Mom yelled often. Not from cruelty but from exhaustion. Dad stayed quiet. Not from peace, but fear of making things worse.
Arguments rose and fell like sudden storms. Little things became big things. Nothing felt steady. But who was to blame?
Aldi's eldest sister fought the most. She was the only one that brave enough to answer back Mom. She questioned things, defended herself and her siblings, to say what everyone else was too scared to say.
But in this household, our parents were always right. Respect meant silence. Obedience meant survival.
Her sharp mouth earned her punishment more times than she could count. She cried quietly afterward, wiping her tears fast, pretending it didn't hurt.
Aldi watched without fully understanding. He didn't know the words injustice, overwhelm, cycles, pressure yet.
Over time, he noticed how she always found ways to stay out of the house. Staying late at the internet cafe, playing games with friends while claiming she was doing homework.
Aldi knew that she wanted to pursue her study in the capital. Anything that gave his sister air.
But Mom couldn't let her go. Her first daughter, her pride and pillar. The idea of losing her felt impossible.
Aldi didn't fight like his sister did. He didn't shout. He didn't protest. He didn't cry loudly.
He simply withdrew.
Children don't need explanations to feel unsafe, their bodies learn first. Guess that Aldi's body learned quickly.
He stopped wanting to join family gatherings. Stopped sitting with relatives when they visited. Stopped showing up to anything that wasn't mandatory.
Unless Oma & Opa were present. Unless the event was held at Oma & Opa Haus. Then he went happily, without hesitation.
He didn't understand why he felt safer around them. He didn't understand why his chest tightened in the city house. He didn't understand why he wanted to hide every time voices rose.
He just knew that noise felt dangerous. He wasn't rebelling. He wasn't being dramatic. He wasn't uncaring.
He was overwhelmed too.
To the outside world, he became difficult, moody. the boy who never joins anything. the kid who doesn't care
But what if the truth was: He cared too much. He felt everything too deeply. He absorbed every emotion in the room. He took every tone personally. That every scolding felt like a small earthquake.
and maybe... just maybe.. he wasn't running away from the family, but running toward a version of himself that didn't feel scared.
..to be continued...