Whispers of Legacy
I used to think love was about sparks. The kind you see in movies—dramatic gestures, perfect timing. But real love? It was quiet. It was when Fadli stayed on the phone with me while I cried in my kosan in Jogja, stressed about work, while he was thousands of kilometers away in Kalimantan. That was the year we learned to trust silence as much as words.
Our journey wasn’t smooth. My parents dreamed of a grand traditional wedding, while his wanted something simple. At one point, I remember thinking: If we can’t even agree on the wedding, how can we agree on life? But instead of walking away, we sat down—just the two of us—and wrote down what really mattered. In the end, it wasn’t about adat or prestige. It was about feeling like home to each other.
He came from a single-parent home. I was raised in a tight-knit Javanese family. Our ideas about marriage didn’t always align. He believed in emotional openness. I was taught to hold things in, to “jaga perasaan orang tua.” But slowly, we found a rhythm. I introduced him to the warmth of family meals, and he taught me how to speak up without guilt.
There was a moment, I’ll never forget it. We were at his cousin’s birthday party, and he was holding my niece who had just tripped and cried. He didn’t hesitate, just scooped her up and made her laugh. That’s when I saw it—a glimpse of him as a father. Something inside me whispered, this is the man I want to raise children with.
We both carry people with us. For me, it was my nenek. She raised six children during times harder than ours, but she never once forgot a birthday. For him, it was his late father—the tahu bulat seller in Kemang who never came home without a smile. Those legacies shaped our idea of success—not riches, but warmth.
Before we got married, we talked a lot about traditions. We agreed to continue buka bersama with both families, but we also said: let’s drop the “istri harus selalu melayani” mindset. We wanted to build a home where respect was mutual.
The idea of becoming parents shifted things. We started watching how we handled conflict. I remember once, during a small fight, he paused and said, “If we have kids, I want them to learn how to disagree without fear.” That changed me. Made me listen more, react less.
Of course, there were fears. He worried about money—freelancing doesn’t guarantee monthly income. I worried about losing myself. As a woman with dreams of grad school and a career, I didn’t want to disappear behind the role of “istri.” We had the hard conversations. Children? Not right away. Finances? Joint savings account. My studies? Fully supported.
Our shared definition of success? Simple. He said, “Let’s still laugh together when we’re fifty.” I added, “Let’s be the kind of parents our kids can talk to, about anything.”
In the middle of all this, little things stood out. The old prayer mat his mother gave us—first thing we placed in our shared room. Or the Polaroid from our first Eid together, pinned beside our bed like a silent promise: no matter where we are, we come home.
Even ordinary days became proof. Shopping for groceries without fighting? Victory. Cooking after work, side by side in silence, became our way to say, I love you, without needing the words.
We did disagree—a lot. He wanted to stay in Jakarta. I wanted Jogja. Compromise? Monthly visits to my parents. We’re both stubborn, but we learned to meet halfway. Even made a Google Calendar to help us sync.
Outside pressures came too. His ex returned from Australia, sending long messages. He told me about it immediately. That honesty cemented my trust. Meanwhile, my friends questioned why I was marrying young. But his steady presence gave me clarity. It was never about the timing. It was about the person.