At the beginning of 2009, I met you for the first time in the teachers' room. You were standing in front of a mirror, trying to wipe marker stains off your face with a tissue. Seeing that, I couldn't help but joke, "Are you washing your face with a marker?"
You laughed. And for some reason, from that simple laugh, my first impression was: this woman is fun to be around.
You were the first American woman I had ever really gotten to know in person. At the time, you were a native English speaker teaching speaking classes at the language institute where I worked. We were not particularly close yet. We simply knew each other and chatted from time to time.
Later, I learned from Desy that the two of you had already known each other before I met you. In fact, you had even traveled together to Yogyakarta for several days. So when Desy and I were planning our wedding, of course we invited you. And you came.
There is one memory that still makes me smile whenever I think about it. Because of a misunderstanding with one of our friends, you almost showed up a day before the wedding reception.
Then, on the wedding day itself, I still remember you arriving around two o'clock in the afternoon and apologizing because you thought you were late. At that moment, I was genuinely confused. Late for what?
Only much later did I realize that it was probably one of those funny cultural differences. In the United States, weddings usually follow a more structured schedule. In Indonesia, especially for receptions like ours, an invitation that says 1:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. does not mean every guest is expected to arrive exactly at one and leave exactly at six. People come whenever they can during that time frame, offer their congratulations, spend a little time chatting, and then leave without needing to stay until the end.
To this day, it remains one of my favorite stories. Every now and then, I still tell it to my three daughters.
I also remember how you eventually sat beside us on the wedding stage. As guests came forward to congratulate the bride and groom, many of them shook your hand as well. During the photo session, you ended up appearing in almost every picture.
In so many of our wedding photos, your face is there as if you were a member of the family who naturally belonged in that moment. And honestly, that was exactly how we felt. You never felt like a guest. You felt like family.
Later, your own wedding invitation arrived. Until then, I had only known about your relationship with Benny through social media. That wedding was my first time meeting him in person. Benny, being from West Sumatra, celebrated the wedding with Minangkabau traditions, and you looked absolutely beautiful that day.
As the years passed, life carried us in different directions. You and Benny built your life in the United States and only returned to Indonesia occasionally.
Meanwhile, I gradually stopped using Facebook and Instagram. Many people call it social media minimalism, but my reason was much simpler: I just did not have enough time. Even without social media, there were still so many things I wanted to do but never seemed to get around to—like reading the growing pile of books on my shelves or the ones I kept borrowing from the library.
Because of that, most of the news about your life came through Desy, who remained active on social media. Through her, we followed little pieces of your story: the births of your children, the activities that filled your days, and the life you and Benny were building together as a family in America.
Then, one day in late 2024, Desy shared the heartbreaking news that Benny had passed away.
I still remember what I felt when I heard the news. It is difficult to describe accurately, but it felt like being struck hard in the chest. There was sadness, shock, and a sudden awareness of how quickly life can change, even when everything seems perfectly fine.
Not long afterward, you decided to move to Indonesia with your four children. You told us that it had been one of the last plans Benny had spoken about. He wanted to return to his hometown, to be closer to his roots.
In the end, life carried that plan in a direction none of us could have imagined. Benny did return home, but not in the way he had planned. He returned to a home farther away, a place beyond the reach of airplanes, ships, or any road we can travel.
Yet perhaps part of that dream still came true. Through you and the children, a part of him found its way back to the land he loved. In your footsteps, in the stories you continue to tell about him, and in the memories that remain alive, Benny still finds his way home.
As outsiders, we can never truly understand the full weight you have carried. But as friends, Desy and I can imagine at least a small part of it. Being a single mother to four children is not easy. Doing it far from the country where you were born, far from the place where so many of your memories with Benny were made, requires extraordinary courage.
That is why whenever I hear news about you now, I do not think only of loss. I think of resilience. I think of someone who keeps moving forward even after life has taken so much from her. I think of someone who continues to be a place of comfort and belonging for her children, even while learning how to build a new home within her own heart.
I pray that Allah always watches over you and your children. May He bless you with health, strength, and peace. May your provision be abundant and blessed. May you continue to meet kind people who help lighten the burdens of life, and may you always be surrounded by sincere friendships.
I also pray that your four children grow into healthy, wise, and compassionate individuals. May they find wonderful friends, discover opportunities to pursue their dreams, and become a constant source of joy in your life. May they grow up to remind you that every sacrifice, every late-night prayer, and every difficult step you have taken was never in vain.
Sometimes I find myself thinking back to that first meeting in front of the mirror. You were laughing as you tried to wipe marker stains from your face.
Back then, I thought you were simply cleaning off a little ink. Years later, I realized that life leaves stains far more difficult to remove than marker ink; loss, separation, change, uncertainty, and wounds that are often invisible to others.
Yet just like that day, you continue to stand before the mirror of life with the same smile. Perhaps a little more tired. Perhaps a little more fragile. But still choosing to move forward.
And maybe that is what I remember most about you. Not because you were the first American woman I ever knew. Not because of the journeys we shared. But because of your ability to keep laughing, keep enduring, and keep walking forward when life has given you every reason to stop.
The older I get, the more I realize that family is not always defined by blood. Some families are connected by ancestry. Others are connected by time, by care, by shared memories, and by friendships that survive distance and the passing of years.
So no matter how much time passes, whenever Desy and I open our wedding album and see your face among those photographs, we are reminded of something simple and true: You will always be a part of our family.
