It is 8:12 in the evening, and I am still on the street. The air has cooled a little, but my box feels heavy with unsold membo ice. I wait quietly for customers, watching people hurry past with their bags and phones. My products are cheap, only small sticks that anyone can afford. If everything sells out on a good day, I make a profit of 100,000 rupiah. That is all.
Yet with this small business, I survive. I pay for rice, electricity, the child's school fees, and the rent for our tiny room. The money comes in slowly and goes out quickly. Daily costs eat most of what I earn: gasoline for the trip, ice to keep the products cold, plastic cups, sugar, milk. After everything, little remains. Growth feels impossible. I cannot save enough to buy a bigger cart or rent a better spot.
I usually pack up and go home around 8:40, just before the housing gate closes. Riding back in the dark, I feel tired but grateful that another day has passed without debt.
Sometimes I think about expanding, maybe adding new flavors or selling in a busier area. But then I look at my situation now: old clothes, worn sandals, a cart that creaks, and shyness fills my heart. Who would believe in someone like me? Dreams of a bigger shop or steady income seem too far away.
So I let them go. No need to dream. I only focus on surviving each day, selling enough to return tomorrow and do it all again. That is enough for now.