Their tiny kitchen had transformed into a new battleground for Wahyu. If the kitchen had once been Aminah’s absolute domain—where the fragrant sizzle of sautéed shallots and shrimp paste always greeted them at the door—it now felt alien and silent. There was only the sound of an iron spatula clattering against a dented aluminum wok.

Wahyu stared down at a handwritten recipe on a tattered piece of paper: clear spinach soup and Widya’s favorite scrambled eggs. Aminah had always made them seem effortless, but for Wahyu, the task felt like an impossible puzzle.

"Bapak, why does the smell... sort of weird?" Widya’s voice—she was growing a bit taller now—broke the silence. She stood in the kitchen doorway, sniffing the air with an expression she was carefully trying to keep from offending her father.

Wahyu turned around, his face smudged with oil and soot. He gave an awkward laugh, trying to mask his desperation. "Ah, this is called the secret aroma, Widya. Bapak is experimenting with spices that are... a little too enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic enough to burn along the edges?" Widya teased with a giggle.

"That's called natural caramelization, sweetheart!" Wahyu defended, laughing heartily even as a sharp pain squeezed his heart.

He clicked off the stove. The wok hissed, leaving a layer of black crust at the bottom. He slid the scrambled eggs—whose shape resembled an uncharted island—onto a plate. The eggs weren't even close to round, and parts of them were charred black.

They sat down at the wobbly wooden dining table. Silence blanketed the room. Wahyu spooned up the spinach soup he had made. The greens looked overly wilted, nearly falling apart, and the broth was murky, nothing like Aminah’s clear, fragrant creations.

"Please, try some," Wahyu said, full of hopeful anticipation.

Widya scooped a spoonful of rice mixed with the soup into her mouth. She chewed slowly. Wahyu held his breath, his eyes glued to his daughter's expression. He knew it was terrible. He hadn't even dared to taste it himself.

Widya stopped chewing for a moment, then swallowed with visible effort. She reached for a glass of water and took a quick gulp.

"How is it? Not enough salt? Too mushy?" Wahyu asked anxiously.

Widya set her spoon down, then offered a sweet smile. "It's good, Bapak. But... I think the spinach was feeling a bit sad today, so it got a little too soft."

Wahyu froze. He realized his daughter was lying just to protect his feelings. He reached for the spoon, took a tiny sip of the broth, and tasted it. It was bland, grassy, and carried a bitter undertone from being overcooked.

"Widya, if it's not good, you don't have to force yourself," Wahyu’s voice faltered. He lowered his spoon gently and dropped his head. His broad shoulders slumped slightly. "Bapak really can't do this, can he? I can't replace Ibu in everything."

The kitchen atmosphere, lively with jokes moments before, dissolved into a suffocating quiet. Widya sat still, staring at her father's trembling hands resting on the table. Those hands were covered in tiny cuts from kitchen knives and burns from hot oil—testaments to how hard Wahyu was trying.

Widya slid off her chair, walked over to Wahyu, and hugged her father from the side.

"Bapak, who asked you to be Ibu? You just stay Bapak. You don't have to be a master chef as long as you're the person who always hugs me whenever I'm sad."

Wahyu felt a sudden warmth prickle behind his eyes. He closed them tight, letting his daughter’s embrace serve as an anchor for his nearly capsized soul. "But Ibu always made you delicious food. Bapak wants to give you the best, Widya."

"The best isn't Ibu's cooking, Bapak. It's having you here at this dining table," Widya whispered. "Even if the food is a disaster, as long as we eat together, it tastes much better than eating a fancy meal alone in a big, empty house."

Wahyu let out a small, raspy chuckle. "You are entirely too good at cheering Bapak up."

"That's because you always taught me to look for the good behind the bad," Widya replied with a small laugh. "But tomorrow, let me help you cook, okay? We'll try Ibu's recipes together, slowly."

Wahyu nodded. He reached out and took Widya’s tiny hand, gripping it tight. "Promise?"

"Promise."

That night, they spent their time eating burnt scrambled eggs and "sad" spinach soup. Over dinner, Wahyu began sharing stories about his youth with Aminah—how Aminah had once cooked rice so hard it could be used as a weapon against mice.

"Whenever your mother got confused back then, all her measurements went completely wrong," Wahyu reminisced, his eyes sparkling. "Once, she put sugar into the sour vegetable soup, thinking it was salt."

Widya burst into peals of laughter at the story. For a fleeting moment, the kitchen no longer felt like a place of sorrow. The scent of burnt food was gradually chased away by the warmth of their laughter.

Wahyu felt the weight on his shoulders lift just a fraction. He may have failed as a cook, but on that night, he felt like a success as a parent. He didn't need to become Aminah to make this house feel like a home. He just needed to be Wahyu—the father who, though clumsy and prone to failure, would always be right there, ready to learn how to cook meals that might never taste as good as a wife's, yet were endlessly brimming with boundless love.

"Tomorrow, let's try making chili paste, okay, Bapak?" Widya asked.

Wahyu shook his head quickly with a laugh. "No way! For that, let Bapak study for at least a year first, so we don't end up having to call the fire department."

Both of them laughed again, filling the humble kitchen with the sweet music of happiness. Wahyu gazed at Widya with profound affection. He knew Aminah must be smiling down at them from afar, proud that even without her, they had still found a way to live, to laugh, and to love one another amidst the remaining ruins of their memories.