Lately I’ve been thinking about the kind of writing I want to do. Today, I just want to write from the heart. My heart holds this word very dearly: thank you.

A month ago, my house helper called me. Her daughter was sick, and she couldn’t work. I was overseas, so I said, “It’s okay, take two weeks.” I thought I was being kind. But later I asked myself: was I kind because I could be, since I wasn’t home? That question stayed with me.

Then she called again, crying. Her daughter had passed away.

I was shocked. I listened to her story and—I’m ashamed to admit—part of me doubted. “Is this real?” my mind asked. I worried I was being scammed. The next day, I asked to video call. I saw her daughter, lying still on the bed. It was real. My heart dropped.

I helped the usual way: I sent extra money, offered a loan, told her she could come back whenever she was ready, with full salary and no deductions. I thought that would be enough. But grief has many layers. There were the funeral costs, the prayers, the gathering, the seven-day ritual, then the forty-day ritual. In total, it cost almost eight times her salary. Only the free village graveyard eased her mind a little.

From my point of view, this has been a hard mirror. I feel terribly sorry for her loss. At the same time, I kept questioning everything along the way. Was I overdoing it? Was I being naïve?

“Be kind, but be clear. Trust—then verify—with compassion.”
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Here’s what I’ve learned:
- It’s okay to be careful. Ask questions. Double-check. Use your head.
- It’s also okay to be kind. Once you know it’s real, let your heart open.
- Do both. Help with a warm heart, unconditionally.

My helper is back at work now. Our bond feels stronger. Before I travelled again, she cooked four dishes and made my favourite—steamed cassava. In the kitchen, between stirring and stories, she told me about her daughter: how she wanted new clothes, dreamed of becoming a teacher, told her parents to be strong, and even wished they could visit Makassar together. I never met her daughter, but through her mother’s words, I felt like I did.

Sometimes I naively think, “If only they had taken Dwi to the hospital earlier,” or “They should learn more about health.” That’s my privilege talking—the part shaped by living in places where ambulances come fast, clinics are close, and money isn’t the first question. The reality is harsher: poverty slows decisions, distance steals time, and systems fail families. It’s not a lack of love or care. It’s a lack of access.

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Dear Dwi,
I never met you, but thank you for letting me know your story. I hope I can honour you by having your parents with me, by being fair and human, and by helping other children like you learn and grow. One day, I hope I can support more education for kids with big dreams like you.

Even today, your Mum told me, “Non Cindy said you wanted to give Dwi some books — but now you can’t anymore.”

That simple sentence stayed with me. It reminded me that sometimes, love arrives too late, and that’s exactly why I want to do better next time.


If you’re reading this, maybe today is a good day to check on someone who quietly supports your life—a helper, a driver, a neighbour. Ask how they are. If help is needed and it’s real, help with clear eyes and a steady heart.

My promise to myself:

“Let your heart stay open, and your help be useful.”

Thank you, life—for the courage to hold doubt in one hand and love in the other, and still choose to act.

—C.

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