Pertanyaan Mereka (Terakhir)#2

Mommy and Daddy

My wife hasn’t been the same since our daughter died.

Three years ago, we became parents to the most beautiful girl. Her hair smelled like morning rain. Her laughter had the power to erase tiredness from my bones. We weren’t rich, but our world felt complete. Now, there’s only silence. Not just outside — inside, too.

We don’t talk about it. Not because we don’t care. But because we care too much. Maybe too deeply. Words feel too sharp, too clumsy, too cruel for a grief so soft and tender.

Every morning, my wife goes to her room. Our daughter’s room. She doesn’t stay long — maybe ten minutes — but it’s the same every day. She goes in alone. Stays quiet. Comes out a little heavier. Her steps slower, her shoulders a bit lower.It’s become her ritual. She doesn’t take anything. She doesn’t clean or rearrange the toys. She just… sits. Sometimes I stand outside the door, listening. And sometimes, I hear nothing at all — not even breathing.

A few months ago, she went to the park. It was the first time she left the house without me in a while. I didn’t ask where she was going. She didn’t say. Two days later, she told me. She said there was a group of kids at the playground. She saw a girl — a little one, about the same age our daughter would have been. She told me she froze. That her knees almost gave out when the girl turned and smiled.

“She looked just like her,” she whispered.

And then she said nothing more.

I didn’t ask for details. I just held her hand. We’ve been like that since the funeral. Silent. Present. Wounded. We didn’t argue. We didn’t even cry in front of each other at first. We just existed. Sometimes I wonder if we were scared of breaking what little we had left. Like if one of us started screaming, we’d never stop. 

There are memories we share, but never say. The smell of her baby soap. The way she used to dance when the rice cooker beeped. The tiny slippers by the door we never moved. Grief makes strange rituals out of people. For my wife, it’s the daily visit to the room. For me, it’s watching her. Not in a controlling way. But like a man trying to make sure the last candle doesn’t burn out.