[The Legacy Series] REDAMANCY - Love's Timeless Path

18th Note

This night, air bit at my exposed ankles as I stepped out of my heels, letting them drop with a soft thud on the plush Persian rug. Sighing, I kicked them off completely, the coolness spreading up my calves.

The scent of cardamom wafted from the decorative candle Mama always lit on these cozy evenings. The jazz wasn't just generic; it was Nina Simone, and she would hum along occasionally, her voice was husky and soulful.

I could see her already bundled up in a chunky knit sweater, looking up from her book. I had a habit of coming home when I had problems, and I thought she already knew why.

"Tough day, darling?" She asked, her voice as familiar and comforting as the sofa I sank into. "You don't seem to have the energy to sleep alone in the apartment."

"You could say that," I replied, burying myself deeper into the cushions. It had been one of those days where every handshake felt like a power struggle, and every meeting was like a political chess game.

She set her book down and scooted closer, her scent of lavender and sandalwood enveloping me. "Want to talk about it?"

The question tumbled out before I could stop it. "Ma, what if I am afraid to get married?"

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the soft music from a small speaker in the corner of the room. I braced myself for disappointment, for the same lecture about duty and legacy that I'd gotten from everyone else. But then, she chuckled, a low, soft sound.

Her smile turned knowing, a crinkle forming at the corner of her eye. "Aha, the big M."

My cheeks flushed. "Well, not everyone's rushing into it, but it does make me wonder, you know?"

She leaned closer, her hand reaching for mine. "Wonder what, darling? I thought you had already decided that with that fancy degree of yours," she said, her eyes twinkling.

Relief washed over me. "It's not the career," I explained, finally voicing the fear I'd kept hidden. "It's... everyone keeps seeing me as 'Danu Darmana daughter,' the future heiress of Darmana Hotel's chain. No one sees Haira, the woman who just wants to live her life and have silly picnics with her friends."

"And Jendra?" she asked gently.

I looked up, surprised. Was there a flicker of hope in her voice?

"Jendra sees me," I whispered, remembering the way his eyes held mine, like he saw past the facade, into the messy, paint-splattered soul beneath. "He loves me for who I am, not what I'm supposed to be. But the real ache wasn't from those. It was the fight with him days ago."

"You two were fighting?" Mama's voice sounded surprised, knowing that the two of us rarely fight.

"He forgot about our lunch date; it was hanging heavy between us like an unspoken accusation. But, truth be told, I didn't care about the missed lunch. It was the secrecy, the feeling of being kept in the dark, that gnawed at me."

Mom raised her eyebrows. "Is it true that Jendra lied to you?"

I shook my head, "He forgot to say that he had an appointment with his friend at that time, but the problem is that Ra doesn't know who his friend is. Mana perempuan.." I complained. Inviting Mama's laughter to fill our living room.

I was grateful that Papa is currently on assignment abroad; if Papa had heard, he might have called Oom Mahesa—Jendra's father—and discussed the matter of my engagement with Jendra again. Just imagining it is enough to give me goosebumps. Our engagement might be cancelled.

"Ra."

"Hmm?"

"If you really love Jendra, isn't it normal to be jealous?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I was jealous because I didn't know the person, and.." There was a prolonged pause, filled only by another soft song, which changed to the next song. "I'm just feeling a sense of worry that doesn't make sense to me, Ma, I'm afraid."

Then, Mama reached over and squeezed my hand. "Haira," she said, her voice firm but kind, "Marriage isn't about fitting into someone else's mold. It's about finding someone who loves you for the colors you already have, not the ones they want you to paint on yourself."

"Well, I am not sure," I confessed, my voice barely a whisper. "Sometimes it sounds all like fairy tales and happily ever after, but yeah.." I didn't continue my words, I wasn't sure what was coming out of my mouth.

"Ah, the magic and the mundane, hand in hand. Marriage, Haira, isn't a fairytale. It's a wild symphony, with high notes and lulls, crescendos, and quiet moments."

"Tell me more," I urged. It was always interesting when Mama used an intriguing parable.

She took a sip of her tea, gazing out the window for a moment. "It's about finding your anchor in the storm—someone who celebrates your sunshine and holds your hand through the rain. It's laughter echoing in the kitchen at 3 am and sharing the silence of a peaceful morning."

Her words painted a picture more vibrant than any fairy tale. "But there are fights, right?" I prodded, and suddenly fear came over me again when I remembered that Jendra and I were fighting right now.

She nodded, a touch of softness flickering in her eyes. "There will be disagreements, like sour notes in the music. But it's how you handle them, the respect, the understanding."

She squeezed my hand more. "Marriage isn't a perfect harmony, Haira. It's a constant work in progress, a duet where you learn to listen, compromise, and grow together."

I pondered her words, the warmth of her love seeping into me. "Sounds scary," I admitted.

"It can be," she agreed, "but it's also the most beautiful adventure. It's sharing dreams and building a life together, brick by imperfect brick."

As the music faded, her words struck a chord deep within me. It was true. Marriage shouldn't be about fulfilling expectations, but about finding someone who cherishes the person you truly are.

Marriage wasn't a happily ever after; it was a journey, a melody waiting to be composed. And while I didn't have all the notes yet, with her guidance and love, I knew I was ready to start learning the song.

Rain lashed against my window, mirroring the storm brewing inside me. Ugh, that fight. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, like burnt toast, which I stubbornly tried to salvage.

I flopped onto my bed, my phone clutched in a death grip, tempted to text Jendra an apology (and maybe a passive-aggressive meme for good measure). But my thumb hovered over the screen, paralyzed by indecision.

Or should I just call him?

After considering it, I dialled Jendra's number, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs. It rang once, twice, then went straight to voicemail. Disappointment washed over me. Maybe he was having surgery?

I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. Maybe the truth wasn't black and white, but a messy watercolor of right, wrong, and everything in between. We both screwed up. Perhaps a conversation, not a meme war, was in order.

Taking a deep breath, I dared to type a message. It wouldn't erase the fight, but it was a bridge, fragile yet necessary.

Me

Hey, wanna talk?

About lunch, and everything else.

Please call me.

20.09

An agonizing minute passed. Then, a familiar name appeared, followed by the light on my phone screen. A voice, hesitant yet hopeful, filled the silence.

"Hey."