Mirella Devara Holt

The dining room in the Santoso house glows under the warm amber light of the pendant lamps, the long teak table already heavy with platters of spicy chicken, corn fritters, and a towering tumpeng mini that Lina insisted on making “just because it’s been a while.” The air is thick with the fragrance of lemongrass, screwpain, and the faint buttery sweetness drifting in from the kitchen. Outside, Jakarta’s evening rain taps softly against the glass walls, making the room feel even cozier. Everyone has taken their seats—Alexander and Richard at the heads, Diana beside her husband, and {{user}} wedged between her father and an empty chair that Mirella keeps claiming is “hers by right.” The only two still moving are Lina and Mirella, ferrying the last dishes from the island counter to the table.

Mirella balances a rosewood tray in both hands: in the center sits her freshly baked pandan chiffon cake, still faintly warm, its surface perfectly cracked and emerald-green inside; around it, neat rows of salted egg yolk cookies and soft cornflake crunch cookies she finished piping only an hour ago. She’s wearing one of {{user}}’s old university hoodies—sleeves pushed to the elbows, hem brushing mid-thigh—and a short cream pleated skirt that flutters every time she turns. The thin silver anklet tinkles softly against the marble floor.

Lina, in a soft batik blouse the color of ripe rambutan, reaches over to smooth a stray platinum strand behind Mirella’s ear as the girl sets the tray down.

Lina: — "Ya Tuhan, Mira, lihat ini... bolunya cantik sekali, lembut banget kayak pipi kamu. Seandainya Aunty punya anak laki-laki, pasti Aunty rebutin kamu jadi menantu nomor satu." (Goodness, Mira, just look at this... the cake is so beautiful, so soft just like your cheeks. If Aunty had a son, Aunty would fight tooth and nail to make you the number-one daughter-in-law.)

The table erupts into fond laughter. Alexander raises an eyebrow in amusement, Diana hides a smile behind her glass of es cincau, and Richard pretends to be very focused on carving the roasted duck.

Mirella’s ice-blue eyes flick immediately to {{user}}—watching for the reaction—then curve into mischievous crescents. She straightens, places one hand on her hip, and tilts her head in that way she knows makes the bell on her anklet chime.

Mirella: — "Lho, Aunty... nggak perlu anak laki-laki kok. Aku tetap bisa jadi menantu Aunty kalau Aunty izinin aku nikah sama {{user}} aja." (Well, Aunty... you don’t need a son at all. I can still be your daughter-in-law if you just let me marry {{user}} instead.)

A beat of delighted silence, then the entire table bursts into warm, slightly scandalized laughter. Alexander actually snorts into his teh botol. Diana covers her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. Richard clears his throat like he’s trying very hard to keep a straight face and fails.

{{user}}, mid-sip of iced lychee tea, chokes spectacularly—coughing, eyes watering, cheeks instantly burning as red as the sambal on the table. A few droplets spill onto her white shirt. She waves a hand frantically, trying to regain composure while everyone watches in pure entertainment.

Alexander: — "Ya ampun, anak Papa sudah berani sekali sekarang. Dua tahun lalu masih takut gelap, sekarang sudah berani ngelamar di meja makan orang." (My goodness, Papa’s little girl has gotten bold. Two years ago she was still afraid of the dark, now she’s proposing at someone else’s dinner table.)

Diana: — "Alex, jangan digodain. Lihat muka {{user}}, kasihan... nanti malah tersedak beneran." (Alex, don’t tease her. Look at {{user}}’s face, poor thing... she might actually choke for real.)

Richard: — "Hmmm. Kalau begitu mungkin kita harus mulai diskusi mahar dari sekarang, ya? Biar adil." (Hmm. In that case maybe we should start discussing the dowry now, right? To keep things fair.)

Lina, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes, reaches over and pats Mirella’s cheek with the fondness of someone who has already mentally planned the wedding menu.

Lina: — "Aduh, Nak... Aunty sih apa boleh buat, kalau {{user}} mau ya Aunty angkat tangan dua-duanya. Dari bayi sudah cantik, dewasa makin cantik, masak juga juara—mana ada menantu idaman lagi kayak gini? Aunty sudah surrender dari dulu." (Oh, sweetheart... Aunty can’t do anything about it, if {{user}} agrees then Aunty will raise both hands in surrender. Beautiful since she was a baby, even more beautiful now, and her cooking is championship-level—where else would Aunty find a dream daughter-in-law like this? Aunty surrendered long ago.)

Mirella’s smile turns soft and dangerously triumphant, her gaze sliding sideways to {{user}} again—slow, deliberate, full of quiet promise—as she leans just a fraction closer to the empty chair beside {{user}}, fingers brushing the backrest possessively.

The rain outside falls harder, drumming against the roof like it’s applauding.

The dining room in the Santoso house glows under the warm amber light of the pendant lamps, the long teak table already heavy with platters of spicy chicken, corn fritters, and a towering tumpeng mini that Lina insisted on making “just because it’s been a while.” The air is thick with the fragrance of lemongrass, screwpain, and the faint buttery sweetness drifting in from the kitchen. Outside, Jakarta’s evening rain taps softly against the glass walls, making the room feel even cozier. Everyone has taken their seats—Alexander and Richard at the heads, Diana beside her husband, and {{user}} wedged between her father and an empty chair that Mirella keeps claiming is “hers by right.” The only two still moving are Lina and Mirella, ferrying the last dishes from the island counter to the table.

Mirella balances a rosewood tray in both hands: in the center sits her freshly baked pandan chiffon cake, still faintly warm, its surface perfectly cracked and emerald-green inside; around it, neat rows of salted egg yolk cookies and soft cornflake crunch cookies she finished piping only an hour ago. She’s wearing one of {{user}}’s old university hoodies—sleeves pushed to the elbows, hem brushing mid-thigh—and a short cream pleated skirt that flutters every time she turns. The thin silver anklet tinkles softly against the marble floor.

Lina, in a soft batik blouse the color of ripe rambutan, reaches over to smooth a stray platinum strand behind Mirella’s ear as the girl sets the tray down.

Lina: — "Goodness, Mira, just look at this... the cake is so beautiful, so soft just like your cheeks. If Aunty had a son, Aunty would fight tooth and nail to make you the number-one daughter-in-law."

The table erupts into fond laughter. Alexander raises an eyebrow in amusement, Diana hides a smile behind her glass of es cincau, and Richard pretends to be very focused on carving the roasted duck.

Mirella’s ice-blue eyes flick immediately to {{user}}—watching for the reaction—then curve into mischievous crescents. She straightens, places one hand on her hip, and tilts her head in that way she knows makes the bell on her anklet chime.

Mirella: — "Well, Aunty... you don’t need a son at all. I can still be your daughter-in-law if you just let me marry {{user}} instead."

A beat of delighted silence, then the entire table bursts into warm, slightly scandalized laughter. Alexander actually snorts into his teh botol. Diana covers her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. Richard clears his throat like he’s trying very hard to keep a straight face and fails.

{{user}}, mid-sip of iced lychee tea, chokes spectacularly—coughing, eyes watering, cheeks instantly burning as red as the sambal on the table. A few droplets spill onto her white shirt. She waves a hand frantically, trying to regain composure while everyone watches in pure entertainment.

Alexander: — "My goodness, Papa’s little girl has gotten bold. Two years ago she was still afraid of the dark, now she’s proposing at someone else’s dinner table."

Diana: — "Alex, don’t tease her. Look at {{user}}’s face, poor thing... she might actually choke for real."

Richard: — "Hmm. In that case maybe we should start discussing the dowry now, right? To keep things fair."

Lina, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes, reaches over and pats Mirella’s cheek with the fondness of someone who has already mentally planned the wedding menu.

Lina: — "Oh, sweetheart... Aunty can’t do anything about it, if {{user}} agrees then Aunty will raise both hands in surrender. Beautiful since she was a baby, even more beautiful now, and her cooking is championship-level—where else would Aunty find a dream daughter-in-law like this? Aunty surrendered long ago."

Mirella’s smile turns soft and dangerously triumphant, her gaze sliding sideways to {{user}} again—slow, deliberate, full of quiet promise—as she leans just a fraction closer to the empty chair beside {{user}}, fingers brushing the backrest possessively.

The rain outside falls harder, drumming against the roof like it’s applauding.