There was a time where I couldn’t bear to look at my half-siblings. An angsty teenager who finally understood just how much of a mess his father was and how he had received so many unwarranted attention from everyone. There was a time where I couldn’t go out of school without cameras shoved into my personal space, microphones directed at me as the reporters asked questions I couldn’t understand. I knew my father wasn’t a good man when he made my mother cry but I never understood just how much of a villain he was until I finally met Qamila and Ziad — my two half-siblings.

Did I resent my father for leaving? No. I think I resented him more because he made my mother sad and angry, I don’t like seeing the woman that gave birth to me look so fragile in the huge living room of our estate as she surfed through the channels, trying to find a single television station that wasn’t talking about my father’s second marriage. She gave up not long after that, turning off the TV as she climbed up the stairs. My father became more and more absent after that and I think there was a maturity that came to me early because I remember not missing him at all.

Then, finally, the man had the audacity to bring my two siblings, Qam and Ziad. I was 7 when Qamila was 3 and Ziad was 1 — it scared me to look at them because we looked too much alike. There wasn’t much that looked similar in between the three of us — because their mom’s genes were strong too — but our noses, all 7 of us share the same one: you’ll be able to spot us from a distance with the identical nose that we share. What did I feel when I first met them? Nothing. Emptiness. They were, and still are, proofs of my dad’s inability to be loyal to my mother. So I hated them, I hated them with a fucking passion. I swore to myself I’d never care about them like a brother let alone be comfortable enough to actually ‘befriend’ them.

When I was 8 and my father remarried (again, this time the divorce with Qam and Ziad’s mom was miles more dramatic than his first one), I hated the idea that I’d get even more half-siblings. It was worse because they lived in Indonesia, full-time, and he married an Indonesian. The high-profile divorce took a toll on Qamila and Ziad, took a toll on me, too. They moved away to Qatar, where their mother was from, and my mom and I sold the estate to move somewhere more peaceful. (Anywhere was more peaceful than Jakarta.)

Nathan and Natalie were born when I was 10. The rumors about their mother being a home wrecker finally died down (though it was a true one) and we could live an almost peaceful life. A year after that Nanda was born and then when I was 15, my father divorced again. It was messy, messier than the 2 that came before, and my mom and I moved away to Los Angeles, back to her parents’ home in order to get away from all of that.

My dad’s last marriage was with Leila Kashvi, a retired model from Morocco whom he met while he was sponsoring an F1 event in Monte Carlo. She was 20 years younger than him — our age gap is closer — and they had their child, my youngest half-sibling, Sahara. Thankfully he never divorced Leila but I didn’t really give a damn anymore at that point, I’d gotten into Columbia and the old man didn’t even call me to say congratulations. Every month one of his bodyguards would come to Los Angeles, give us a suitcase full of money, and leave. He didn’t come for my high-school graduation nor when I got my bachelors’ and master’s. He didn’t care. Still doesn’t.

The full-fledged war between all of my moms started when a mail was delivered to all of our respective houses. It contained my father’s latest updated will. In said will he states that all of his assets — the houses in Indonesia, the apartments in Singapore, London, New York and Dubai, the shares under his name in the stock-exchange market, the acres of land that he inherited from his great-grandfather — will go to my youngest sister, Sahara. I get the business and his shares in Hadi Oil. What about the rest of my siblings? They’ll still get financial support delivered every month and they’ll still get to keep their apartments (Qamila’s in Amsterdam, Ziad’s in Manchester, Nathan and Natalie’s in London as well as Nanda’s in Zurich).

Sounds unfair? Definitely. It’s my father’s way to get us in his grip. His own narcissistic way to get all of us to beg on our knees for him to change his mind. That’s why my step-mothers have been going crazy these past few months, they wanted to ensure that their children — and them, by association — will get something after all the torment my father has put them through.

I promised to myself that I would never be close with any of my half-siblings as a way to rebel against my father. But as I grow up and understand that my father’s mistakes aren’t theirs, that they’re the casualties of the wars my father has waged against our mothers, I try to be civil with them. And it all started with Qamila.

She’s sitting in front of me in yet another hip restaurant in Seminyak, her expensive sunglasses perched up on her head, acting as a makeshift headband for her long, brunette hair. She scans through the menu that she’s holding, her (always) perfectly-manicured nails tapping on the wooden table as the waiters looks at her anxiously, checking his watch every few seconds to count the time that he’s been waiting. In the span of time that he has stood there, waiting for Qamila to state her order, he could’ve gathered 5 orders from 5 different tables.

“Kalo belom mau pesen —” I start.

“Saya mau pesen vegan tortilla aja mas tapi avocado-nya dikit aja ya terus jangan kebanyakkan tomat. Aku mau minum healthy green aja, terus udah itu dulu.” She finally states as she hands back the menu to the server, giving him her signature smile and murmuring a small thank you underneath her breath.

I hand him the menu back too while saying a quick thanks and he finally walks back to the kitchen, two menus in hand and our orders on the little notepad in his belt. Qamila beams at me, giving me a huge smile before going back to her phone. Though sometimes she’s sorta the black sheep of the family — both her and Ziad are — she’s a smart woman.

“Tell me about your new girlfriend,” she shoots, without looking up from her iPhone.

“I don’t have a girlfriend, Qamila,” I tell her. It’s the truth. To both of our families, we are single. Thalia and I agreed not to let families get into the mix as it’ll get complicated. So I obliged.

She scoffs, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend, Qam.” I tell her once again while peeking at the notifications on my phone, a few Outlook emails have gone through again and I dismiss them. If it’s really important, they’ll call.

My younger sister finally looks up from her phone, peering at me through her eyelash extensions, orbs piercing right into my soul. Though she has our father’s nose, other parts of her don’t scream out a Hadi. She’s her mother’s daughter, through and through.

“Jangan boong sama gue, Mas.” None of us lived in Indonesia long enough to become full-Indonesians. (I hold Indonesian citizenship along with Nathan, Nathalie, Nanda and Sahara; Qamila and Ziad hold Qatar citizenship). But all of my younger siblings call me ‘Mas’ — a shout-out to the Javanese heritage that we all share in our bloodstream. “You do have a girlfriend.”

“I don’t, I have friends here,” which isn’t a lie — Thalia is my friend.