Jihan deletes every single one.

Jihan, 29, is a marketing executive in Kuala Lumpur. On the surface, she has it all: a chic apartment, a designer wardrobe, and a promotion on the horizon. But as Hari Raya Aidilfitri approaches, her phone buzzes relentlessly. Her mother, Mak Jah, leaves voicemails—soft, pleading, full of sighs. Her father, Pak Hassan, sends short texts: “Pulanglah, anak. Mak rindu.” (Come home, child. Mom misses you.)

Jihan drives the four hours back to her village in Perak. The moment she steps into the house, the smell of lemang burning over coconut husks hits her. Her aunts hug her. Her cousins stare. Her mother freezes at the stove, tears welling up, but says nothing—just hands her a cup of teh tarik .

A week before Raya, Jihan’s grandmother, Tok Mi, falls ill. Her father doesn’t ask this time. He commands: “You come home. Now.”