Chapter 1: The Hug Receiver's First Client
The white noise machine hummed its soft, oceanic lullaby, a rhythmic wash of pretend waves that filled the sunlit home office with a palpable calm. Ayu Kartika Sari sat cross-legged in the center of the room on a massive, velvet beanbag the color of strawberry milk. The bag was embroidered with a single, lopsided rainbow heart she had helped her Mama sew last spring. Her own heart, a real and beating thing beneath the soft cotton of her pastel pink hoodie, felt like it was trying to match the tempo of the ocean sounds. Thump-thump. Swish. Thump-thump. Swish.
Her hands, small and plump, rested on her thick, squishy thighs. She had dressed herself today, a monumental task that had taken the better part of an hour and the combined encouragement of her two mothers. The stretchy maxi skirt, a buttery yellow that reminded her of sunshine, was pulled up high over her plush round belly, its waistband a gentle, seamless hug. Her feet were bare, toes wiggling against the plush, cream-colored rug. She liked the way the fibers felt, like brushing a friendly cat.
But the best part, the part that made her whole body wiggle with a happy little shiver, was her hair. Her calf-length, jet-black hair, a gift from her Indonesian heritage, had been styled by Mama into two of the most outrageously voluminous pigtails the world had ever seen. They stuck out from the sides of her head like two enormous, fuzzy black pom-poms, secured with neon pink scrunchies that glittered in the fairy lights. A glittery butterfly clip was pinned haphazardly near her left ear, and an absurdly oversized, sparkly bow, the size of a dinner plate and the color of a disco ball, was perched precariously on top of her head. A few stray wisps of hair had already escaped, framing her face in a way that made her look even more like a doll.
A soft, candy-like scent of vanilla and coconut lotion rose from her skin, mixing with the lavender diffuser her other Mama had turned on an hour ago. The air in the room was a gentle cocktail of comfort. It was a good smell. A safe smell.
Her enormous doe eyes, framed by lashes so long they almost brushed her chubby, pillowy cheeks, were fixed on the doorway. Her lips, full and naturally pouty, were slightly parted in a permanent expression of open, breathless anticipation. A tiny drop of drool gathered at the corner of her mouth. She didn't bother to wipe it away. She was too busy waiting.
"She's been like that for twenty minutes," a soft voice whispered from the hallway.
Ayu's head didn't turn. She knew the voice. It was Mama. Her first Mama.
Her other mother, Ibu, replied, her voice thick with an emotion Ayu couldn't name but could feel in the air, a warm, heavy pressure. "Look at her. Just... look at her. She's so ready. She's so perfect."
Ayu's ears, adorned with eight stupidly enormous lesbian-themed piercings—rainbow studs, tiny Venus symbols, a small, glittering heart in her cartilage—perked up at the sound of their love. It was a familiar sound, a foundational hum in the symphony of her life. She knew their scents, the feel of their hands, the exact pitch of their laughter. Her mind, a new and unbreakable place, was a library filled with twenty-one years of these sensory memories, each one stamped with their devotion.
Footsteps, quiet and hesitant, approached the door. A new scent, one of cinnamon shampoo and clean denim, drifted into the room. Ayu’s whole body went still. Her pout opened a fraction more. Her giant, innocent eyes widened, the pupils dark and enormous in the afternoon light.
A young woman appeared in the doorway. She was maybe nineteen, with a nervous smile and hands that clutched the strap of her canvas bag. Her name was Mira, and her file—which her mothers had read to her three times—said she liked cats and felt overwhelmed in crowds.
Mira stopped just inside the threshold, her eyes taking in the room: the beanbags, the plushies, the sparkling pins on the shelves, and finally, the small, round girl in the middle of it all, a vision of overwhelming, pastel-colored delight.
"Hi," Mira whispered.
Ayu’s face, which had been a tableau of silent, desperate hope, broke into a smile so wide it seemed to physically stretch her cheeks. Her permanent pout was transformed into a beacon of pure, unadulterated joy. A small, happy squeak escaped her throat.
"Hi," she squeaked back.
In the doorway, her two mothers stood shoulder to shoulder, watching. They saw the tension in Mira’s shoulders. They saw the way Ayu’s entire being seemed to lean forward, not with impatience, but with an eagerness to give. They saw the miracle of it all, the long, strange, and beautiful journey that had brought this tiny, perfect soul into their lives. A single tear traced a path down Ibu’s cheek. Mama squeezed her hand.
Mira took another step into the room. The white noise machine played on, the fake waves crashing gently.
Ayu slowly, carefully, lifted her arms. Her thick, plush arms, wrapped in the soft pink fabric of her hoodie, opened in the universal shape of a question. The question was simple. The question was everything. It was an offering. It was an invitation.
Her huge doe eyes never left Mira’s face, shining with an intelligence of the heart that transcended any IQ score. Her voice, sweet and simple and utterly sincere, cut through the soft hum of the ocean.
"Hug time!"