Whispers of Legacy
It was our first Lebaran as a married couple. The house smelled like rendang, sambal goreng ati, and the familiar hint of old batik linen just pulled from the lemari. My mother had been up since dawn. My in-laws were arriving that afternoon. And me? I stood in the kitchen doorway, wondering if peace could fit inside a house that held so many versions of us.
Family is like that—messy, layered, but sacred. My cousin Rani brought up the old rumor about how I almost canceled the wedding. Everyone laughed, but I saw Fadli glance at me with a smile only I understood. “Kita hampir nyerah ya dulu,” he whispered when no one was watching. “Tapi kita milih bertahan.” That meant more than any ‘I love you.’
Later that day, my little niece—the one who cried last year—dragged Fadli by the hand, asking him to help her with her new coloring book. I watched them from the hallway, my heart catching in the softest way. He didn’t know I was looking, but he had the same gentle patience I once saw in my father.
That day, we sat in a circle after Zuhur prayers—siblings, cousins, friends—each sharing something they were grateful for this year. Fadli said, “I’m thankful for a wife who still holds my hand when we walk through crowded pasar.” Everyone laughed, but I didn’t. I was still holding his hand.
We didn’t talk about careers or achievements. We talked about how Tio and Sita managed to survive their miscarriage. About how Ika and her husband decided to adopt after 7 years of trying. It reminded me how marriage is not a competition—it’s companionship. Perjalanan, bukan perlombaan.
The biggest lesson that day came from the smallest voice. My nephew, barely eight, asked, “If I grow up and get married, do I have to stop playing with my toys?” Everyone laughed. But his mom said, “No, Nak. You just share them.”
That stayed with me. Isn’t that what marriage is? Not letting go of who you are—but learning how to share it with someone else. Your dreams, fears, your silly inside jokes.
That night, after the house had gone quiet, I found a note in my prayer book. It was Fadli’s handwriting:
“Legacy isn’t what we leave behind. It’s what we live every day—with patience, kindness, and a full plate of your mom’s sambal goreng.”
We weren’t perfect. But we were building something real. And that—that—was the legacy I wanted to whisper into the future.