It’s the first day of school in Malaysia.
In the family WhatsApp group, my siblings sent photos of their children before leaving the house. Shoes newly white. Backs straight. Faces half-awake. In our house, my husband handled the morning today. He didn’t take any pictures. By the time I noticed, the moment had already passed.
I wondered, briefly, if that made us careless parents. Or just parents who don’t always reach for proof. This isn’t the first time we’ve missed something like this. I don’t know why I’m so nonchalant about these kinds of memories. The feeling came and went. It didn’t stay long enough to explain itself.
Some of my nephews and nieces are prefects now. The word landed softly. I felt proud in a quiet way, like adjusting something small on a shelf.
It felt like my first day at the office too. I arrived early. I did a brain dump. Eight or nine projects sat on the page, waiting. I asked myself if it was too much. Then I noticed I felt fine. A little lazy, even. I decided I would take one thing at a time and let the day stretch around it.
What I like most is reading through content. Writing. Editing. Letting sentences settle. What drains me is interviewing people. I want their stories, but holding the questions costs more than I expect. Still, this is part of the work. Amanah, as people here like to say. I carry it.
My husband has been excited to go into the office lately. I’m happy for him. There is something steady about liking the work you do and being paid for it. I don’t dwell on comparisons. I just notice the privilege of sitting at a desk, of thinking for a living, of arriving home with the day still inside me.
The children went to school.
The office lights came on.
The day began, even without photographs.
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