A Thousand for Each “A”
[Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual beings, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
When Faiz earns five A’s in his SPM exams, all he sees is RM5,000 in cold, hard cash. Never mind his father's wallet is feeling the weight. As the father reflects on his own school days, his selfless sister's quiet sacrifices, and the cost of motivation then and now, he finds himself caught between laughter and pride. A heartwarming and funny story about ambition, family finances, and what happens when your kids actually take you seriously.
Two days ago, the SPM results were released. I still remember standing outside the school gate with my son, Faiz, both of us pretending not to be nervous. When he walked out of the hall, his face broke into that lopsided grin he inherited from me. Five distinctions out of nine subjects. He clutched the result slip like a trophy.
Now, as I sit at the dining table, the echoes of that moment drift back to me. Across from me, Faiz scrolls through his phone, half-listening, waiting for me to bring up the thing he really wants to hear.
Money.
Months ago, in the thick of exam preparations, I’d casually said, “I’ll give you RM1,000 for every A you get.” I wanted to light a fire in him, something to chase. It wasn’t a formal promise, just a playful prod. But of course, a teenage boy hears only the numbers.
Five A’s. RM5,000.
It’s a lot of money. Enough to make me think twice — especially with five more children still growing up under my roof. Their school fees, books, uniforms — all lined up ahead of me like a row of toll booths I must pass through one by one.
And yet, my mind drifts further back. My own SPM days, when the world felt harder, less forgiving. I was the second of seven siblings. My older sister, Minah, had been the family achiever then — seven distinctions, two years before my turn. Everyone expected her to go far — university, maybe even overseas. But Minah saw the numbers. She always saw the numbers. She knew how tight things were.
She came to our father and said, “Abah, let me take the full scholarship from Assunta Hospital. It covers everything. I’ll start work right after my training. You can save the money for the younger ones.”
She chose nursing over medicine, scholarship over ambition, so the rest of us could breathe a little easier.
Today, she’s Chief Staff Nurse at another hospital — respected, sharp, endlessly patient. She never asks for praise, never raises her voice. But I think about her often. About how she carried the family on her back without complaint. Her strength wasn’t loud, but it was unwavering.
“Mak Minah’s the real hero,” I told Faiz once. “Success doesn’t always wear a tie. You don’t need to be a lawyer, doctor, or accountant to matter. Look at your Mak Minah.”
I meant it.
Back then, my father had no soft words, no prizes waiting at the finish line. Just one cold, immovable warning: “If your results aren’t good enough to get you into Sixth Form in a government school, that’s it. No more school. I can’t afford private college.”
No safety nets. No backups. Just one path — make it or stop walking. So I studied like my life depended on it. Because it did. On nights when mosquitoes bit and the kitchen lamp flickered, I hunched over borrowed reference books until my vision blurred. Eight distinctions. Good enough for Sixth Form, then university.
When I handed my father the result slip, he barely looked up from his newspaper.
He gave one nod — like he was acknowledging a utility bill paid on time. No hugs.
No RM5,000. Just life moving on.
That was motivation in my time. The fear of falling. The fear of being left behind.
“Abah,” Faiz says, pulling me back to the present. “So… about that RM5,000?”
I look at him. He’s taller than me now, his hair flopping over his forehead, his T-shirt hanging loose. If he were still in school, that look would’ve earned him a warning from the discipline teacher. But he’s on the other side of that now. And he’s almost a man. Almost.
“What do you plan to do with the money?” I ask, though I already have a hunch.
He perks up. “I want to use it as down payment for a car. A used one. Nothing fancy. It'll make it easier to get to college. Especially with late classes and all.”
Down payment for a car.
I try not to sigh. I’d been hoping for something else. A laptop, maybe. Books. Even savings. But a car?
“Public transport not good enough?”
He shrugs. “Not really. Sometimes the bus doesn’t come on time. And it’s tiring. With a car, I could do part-time jobs — deliveries, maybe. Foodpanda, Grab. And sometimes, I could give my friends a ride.”
He’s thought about it. I’ll give him that. Still, I see the future already — mortgage repayments, petrol bills, maintenance, insurance, distractions, temptations. I lean back, considering him.
“You know,” I say slowly, “when I got my results, I didn’t get anything. No cash. No congratulations. Just… life moving on.”
He shifts in his seat, uncertain.
“I studied because I had no choice. No Plan B. Just one road. Make it or break it.”
“I’m not you, Abah,” he says.
“I know,” I nod. “And maybe that’s a good thing.”
The ceiling fan hums above us, spinning lazily. RM5,000 could disappear in the blink of an eye. One minor car accident and it’s gone. Then what?
I sit up straighter.
“Here’s my counteroffer, Faiz. I’ll give you the RM5,000. But not for a car.”
He frowns. “Then for what?”
“We’ll open an Amanah Saham account. Put the money in your name. Let it grow. Slowly. In four years, when you graduate, you’ll have savings to tide you over. Not flashy. But steady.”
He looks unconvinced. “But how will I get to college?”
“You take the bus. You make it work. A car is nice. But at your age, savings is gold.”
His fingers tap out a rhythm on the table. I can see the war inside him — the hunger for freedom, the dream of pulling into campus like an adult, against the quiet, steady voice of patience.
“Think about it,” I say gently. “You want to be a chef, right? Build something from the ground up? Then start with good habits. Don’t spend money before you’ve earned it.”
He nods slowly, still turning it over.
“Okay,” he says at last. “Let’s do it your way. I want that ASN account.”
I smile and reach over, ruffling his hair — something I haven’t done in years.
“Good choice, Chef Faiz.”
He laughs, sheepishly. And for a moment, tuition fees, rising costs, and leaky ceilings fade into the background.
Just then, a voice pipes up from behind us.
“So, Abah…” It’s Siti, my second child. Sixteen this year, sharp as a blade and twice as quick. She flops into the chair beside Faiz, grinning. “Is it true? RM1,000 per A?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”
“Faiz did,” she says, poking him in the ribs. “I just want to know... If I get, say, nine A’s next year, can I collect RM9,000 in cash or bank transfer?”
Her grin is wicked. She’s teasing me — but only halfway.
From the sink, her mother chimes in without turning around. “And you’d better give it to her. Sons and daughters should be treated the same.”
I throw up my hands in mock despair. “You all think I print money or what?”
We all laugh. But inside, I’m already doing the mental calculations. Siti is brighter than Faiz, and more disciplined too. I don’t say it out loud — no need to sow rivalry — but I know. If Faiz got five, Siti might just bring home all nine. RM9,000. In one go.
I glance at my wife, now leaning against the kitchen door, arms folded. She smirks.
“You started it,” she says. “You live with it.”
And she’s right. I don’t mind, really. Because I see now — motivation doesn’t have to be born from fear. It can come from encouragement, from being believed in.
Faiz stretches out his legs under the table. “Maybe I should tutor Siti in math,” he says. “Charge her RM10 an hour.”
“You’d better give me sibling discount,” she shoots back.
I chuckle, watching them bicker and banter. In these small, noisy moments, I see the future. Uncertain, yes — but not bleak. Just a little brighter than the one I had.
Later that night, when the TV murmurs and the house quiets down, I step out onto the porch. The air is cool. I don’t smoke anymore, but I still come out here sometimes, just to breathe.
I think of Minah again. Of her steady hands and steady heart. Of how she stepped aside so the rest of us could move forward.
She never got RM1,000 for every A. Not even RM100. She never asked.
But in our family, her sacrifice is worth more than any reward. She taught me that success doesn’t need to be loud. Sometimes it wears scrubs, punches in early, and keeps going when no one’s watching.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real lesson I want my children to carry.
* * * * *
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