
Whispers of Legacy
It came one evening, quietly.
We were folding laundry when Fadli said, “There’s a chance I’ll be assigned to Makassar for two years. Project gas baru. It’s good. Great, even.”
I kept folding, trying to hold my breath steady. “So… when do we decide?”
“Soon.”
We’d only been married a little over a year. Still figuring out who took the trash out and who was better at fixing leaking faucets. The thought of doing this alone—even temporarily—felt like someone had pulled the rug from beneath our little routine.
That night, we barely slept. Not because we fought, but because we didn’t know how to.
My dreams of finally taking a writing course in Jakarta, spending weekends with both families, and slowly preparing a nursery—all floated further away. At sahur, I finally said it out loud. “I know this job matters. But I’m scared of waking up and forgetting what your voice sounds like.”
He reached across the table. “I’m scared too. Of you thinking I chose work over us.”
That’s when I learned: in marriage, it’s not always about choosing each other instead of everything else. Sometimes it’s about choosing each other through everything else.
We talked for hours after that. About what we wanted long-term. About the house, the future kids, the legacies we were trying to build. We even made a list of non-negotiables:
Call each other every night, no matter how late.
Visit once a month, even if it meant budget airlines and cramped hotel rooms.
Never let distance decide for us—only we could do that.
But it was still hard. One week before he left, we packed a small box together. Inside:
A photo of us at the Lebaran table.
My perfume on a tissue.
A letter I wrote saying, “Don’t forget to come home—to us.”
It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a reminder: that love, real love, doesn’t need to be loud to last. It just needs to be chosen again and again—even when it’s inconvenient.
He flew out on a cloudy morning. I cried on the ride home, then got up and registered for that writing course. I’d promised myself I’d keep growing, too.
Marriage didn’t pause when we were apart. It stretched, evolved, deepened. And when he returned three months later for a surprise weekend visit, I opened the door and smiled like it was our first date all over again.
That night, we lay on the couch, both a little older in spirit. He looked at me and said, “You know, I don’t think legacy is something we leave behind anymore.”
I looked back. “No?”
“It’s what we’re choosing—every single day.”