The warm Chilean sun filtered through the windows of the sprawling family home as Pedro watched Casandra expertly roll masa for nacatamales alongside his sister Javiera. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands falling across her face as she laughed at something Javiera had said in rapid Spanish.
“Your Spanish has gotten even better, Cas,” Javiera remarked, nudging Casandra with her elbow.
“Well, I had a good teacher,” Casandra replied, shooting a playful glance at Pedro across the kitchen.
Pedro’s uncle Marco leaned over to him, speaking in a stage whisper. “When are you going to make an honest woman of her, sobrino? You’re not getting any younger.”
“Tío…” Pedro groaned, though he couldn’t help smiling. His family’s constant prodding about marriage had become a running joke over the past year.
His grandmother Rosa chimed in from her perch by the window. “Mi Pedro, she speaks five languages, cooks like an angel, and looks at you like you hung the moon. What more are you waiting for?”
“Abuela, please,” Pedro protested, feeling his cheeks warm. But his eyes drifted back to Casandra, who was now teaching his young niece how to properly fold the banana leaves.
Later that evening, as the family gathered around the long dining table laden with traditional Christmas dishes, Pedro found himself mesmerized by how seamlessly Casandra fit into his world. She switched effortlessly between languages, telling his German-speaking cousin about her father’s hometown in perfect Deutsche, then turning to share a Korean proverb with his aunt who had lived in Seoul.
“Earth to Pedro,” Casandra teased, catching him staring. “You’re missing your father’s story about your first acting role.”
“Oh, the school play disaster of 1983!” his father José announced gleefully. “Casandra, has he ever told you about playing the tree that forgot its lines?”
“Dad, no—” Pedro started, but Casandra’s eyes lit up with delight.
“A tree with lines? This I have to hear,” she said, leaning forward eagerly.
As the evening wore on, the family migrated to the garden. Pedro found Casandra sitting on the old swing set, gently swaying under the star-filled Chilean sky. He sat beside her, their fingers naturally intertwining.
“Your family is impossible,” she said softly, but her smile was fond.
“They love you,” Pedro replied. “Almost as much as I do.”
“They keep asking when we’re going to have babies,” she laughed, resting her head on his shoulder.
Pedro took a deep breath. “Would that be so terrible?”
Casandra lifted her head to look at him. “What are you saying, Pedro?”
He turned to face her fully, taking both her hands in his. “I’m saying that they’re right. I’m forty-eight years old, and I’ve spent my whole life playing other people’s stories. But with you… with you, I want to write our own.”
“Pedro…” Casandra’s voice wavered slightly.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. “I’ve been carrying this around for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment. But watching you today, with my family, speaking every language under the sun, making my grandmother laugh harder than I’ve heard in years… I realized every moment with you is perfect.”
Tears were already streaming down Casandra’s face as he opened the box, revealing a vintage emerald ring.
“It was my grandmother’s,” he explained softly. “She gave it to me last month and said it belonged on your finger.”
“Ask me,” Casandra whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
“Casandra Lee, will you marry me? In every language you know, will you be my wife, my partner, the mother of our children, my forever?”
She answered him in all five languages, “Yes, sí, ja, oui, ne,” before pulling him into a kiss that tasted of happy tears and promise.
From the house, cheers erupted – their private moment had an audience after all. Pedro could hear his grandmother’s triumphant “¡Por fin!” and his sister’s excited squeal.
Casandra laughed against his lips. “You knew they were watching?”
“Mi amor, in this family, everyone is always watching,” he grinned, sliding the ring onto her finger. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Neither would I,” she replied, looking at their joined hands. “Neither would I.”