Belle’s Parents Love First
Chapter 19 – Belle’s Parents Love-First
Belle told herself she would do it when she felt ready.
Ready was a myth.
There was only now.
There was only the moment the truth started to feel heavy in her mouth, like holding a secret was beginning to taste like dishonesty.
And Belle didn’t want to build this new life–this careful, fragile thing–with dishonesty.
Not after she had spent months swallowing grief until it turned her body into a quiet prison.
So she chose a Sunday.
Not a dramatic Sunday.
Just an ordinary one.
Lunch at home.
Her mother cooking too much food like love was measured in portion sizes.
Her father watching football highlights on low volume because silence made him uneasy.
A day where no one would be in a rush.
A day where she could say something scary and still be held by routine.
The lift ride up to her parents’ flat felt longer than usual.
Belle stood alone, hands clasped in front of her, bag strap pressed tight against her shoulder.
Her heart beat too fast.
Not like panic.
Like dread.
Her phone buzzed.
Aleem.
You going today?
Belle’s throat tightened.
She typed:
Yes. I’m outside already.
His reply came quickly.
Okay. Breathe. If you need, call.
Belle stared at the word okay.
It had become a rope.
She slipped her phone into her pocket and took a deep breath.
Then she knocked.
Her mother opened the door almost immediately, like she had been listening for her footsteps.
“Mmm, come in,” her mother said, eyes scanning Belle’s face automatically.
That habit–checking–had started after the breakup.
It hadn’t stopped.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Her mother wasn’t letting her disappear.
Inside, the familiar smell of home wrapped around Belle.
Rice.
Soup.
Garlic.
The faint scent of fabric softener.
Her father sat on the sofa, one leg crossed, remote in hand.
He looked up.
“Belle,” he said.
Not loud.
Just… present.
Belle’s throat tightened.
“Pa,” she greeted.
Her father nodded once.
Then he returned to the screen, as if giving her space to settle before he looked at her again.
That was his way.
He didn’t crowd.
He stayed.
Her mother fussed over her immediately.
“Wash hands. Come eat later. You want tea? Coffee? You look thinner again.”
“I’m okay,” Belle said automatically.
Her mother stopped mid-step.
She turned.
“Don’t say okay like that,” her mother said softly. “Okay like… your okay or my okay?”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Her mother had learned the difference.
Belle swallowed.
“My okay,” she admitted.
Her mother’s shoulders loosened slightly.
“Okay,” her mother murmured. “Then wash hands.”
Belle went to the sink.
The water ran.
She stared at her own fingers.
Steady.
No shaking.
A small mercy.
When she returned, lunch was already laid out.
Her mother did not ask whether she was hungry.
She served food anyway.
A bowl of soup.
A plate of vegetables.
Fish.
Rice.
Belle sat.
Her father moved from the sofa to the dining table without a word.
He sat opposite Belle.
A quiet triangle of family.
No performance.
Just them.
They ate.
Her mother talked about groceries.
Her father made small sounds of agreement.
Belle nodded.
But her thoughts were heavy.
Every time she opened her mouth, she almost said it.
Every time she swallowed, the words remained.
I’m seeing someone.
It’s Aleem.
He’s Muslim.
I’m learning.
The sentence had too many doors inside it.
Belle’s appetite faded.
Her mother noticed immediately.
“Eat,” her mother said, voice gentle but firm.
Belle forced another bite.
Her father watched her quietly.
Then, without looking directly at her, he said,
“Work okay?”
The question was simple.
But it was an opening.
Belle swallowed.
“Okay,” she said.
Her father’s gaze lifted slightly.
He watched her face.
Belle added, quickly, “Busy. But okay.”
Her father nodded once.
He didn’t press.
He let her choose when to speak.
That was his love.
Permission.
After lunch, her mother began clearing plates.
Belle stood to help.
Her mother waved her off.
“You sit. Your father and I wash,” her mother said.
Belle hesitated.
Her mother’s eyes sharpened.
“Sit,” she repeated.
Belle sat.
Her father stood up too, taking plates.
For once, he didn’t go back to the sofa.
He stayed in the kitchen.
Helping.
Showing up.
Belle’s chest tightened.
They were bracing.
Not consciously.
But the body knew.
Her father returned to the dining table first and sat down.
Her mother stayed in the kitchen a little longer.
The water ran.
A plate clinked.
Belle’s heartbeat filled the space.
Her father looked at her.
Not stern.
Not soft.
Just direct.
“You have something,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
Belle’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
Her father waited.
He didn’t rush her.
He didn’t fill the silence with guesses.
He just… waited.
Belle’s hands trembled slightly under the table.
Not shaking.
Just… alive.
She inhaled.
“Pa,” she began.
Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
“I’m seeing someone.”
Her father’s face did not change dramatically.
But his eyes sharpened.
He nodded once.
“Okay,” he said.
One word.
Permission.
Belle’s chest tightened.
She continued, “It’s… someone you know.”
Her father’s gaze held hers.
“ABIX?” he asked.
Belle blinked.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
Her friends were practically family now.
Belle nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Her father’s voice remained calm.
“Which one?”
Belle’s heart hammered.
She swallowed.
“Aleem,” she whispered.
The name landed.
Belle watched her father closely.
His expression stayed controlled.
Not angry.
Not delighted.
Processing.
Then her father asked, quietly,
“Aleem… Malay boy.”
Belle nodded.
Her father’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Muslim?”
There it was.
Belle’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she said softly.
Her father leaned back slightly.
He didn’t shout.
He didn’t curse.
He just exhaled.
A long breath.
Like someone counting the cost of a road.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Her mother walked in at that moment, towel in hand.
She stopped when she saw Belle’s face.
She looked at Belle, then at her husband.
“What?” her mother asked, voice already tight.
Belle swallowed.
“I told Pa,” Belle said.
Her mother’s eyes widened.
“Told what?”
Belle’s throat tightened.
“I’m seeing someone,” she said again. “It’s Aleem.”
Her mother froze.
The towel in her hands stilled.
For a moment, Belle thought her mother might cry.
But her mother didn’t.
Her mother sat down slowly.
And the first thing she asked wasn’t a lecture.
It was a fear.
“Are you… doing this because you’re lonely?” her mother whispered.
Belle’s eyes burned.
Not because the question was insulting.
Because it was protective.
Because it was love that still remembered her on the floor, unable to stand.
Belle shook her head quickly.
“No,” she said, voice trembling. “I’m not… I’m not trying to fill a hole. I’m… choosing.”
Her father’s eyes stayed on her.
“Choosing,” he repeated quietly.
Belle nodded.
Her mother’s voice tightened.
“But… Muslim,” her mother said softly, like the word itself carried danger. “Belle… that’s not small.”
Belle swallowed.
“I know,” she whispered.
Her mother’s eyes were shining now.
“Then why?” her mother asked, voice cracking. “Why you want to make life so hard for yourself?”
Belle’s throat closed.
She didn’t have a perfect answer.
She only had truth.
“Because he’s good,” Belle said softly. “He… stayed. When I was… very bad.”
Her mother’s lips trembled.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
Belle continued, voice shaking, “He didn’t take advantage. He didn’t push. He was just… there. Proper.”
The word slipped out.
Proper.
Her father’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Proper,” he echoed, almost like he was tasting the word.
Belle nodded quickly.
“And… I like him,” she whispered. “I didn’t plan. It just… happened. Slowly.”
Her mother stared at her.
Her mother’s voice went quiet.
“Are you going to convert?”
Belle’s heart hammered.
The question was expected.
But hearing it from her mother made it heavier.
Belle inhaled slowly.
“I’m learning,” she said carefully. “Not… converting yet. Not because he asked. He told me not to do it for him. He said it has to be… sincere.”
Her mother’s eyes searched her face.
“Are you being pressured?” her mother asked sharply.
Belle shook her head fast.
“No,” she said. “He’s… the opposite. He’s careful.”
Her father finally spoke again.
“What about us?” he asked.
The question was simple.
But it carried everything.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Her mother’s eyes filled.
There.
The boundary.
Belle swallowed.
“I’m not leaving,” she said quickly. “I’m not… disappearing. I don’t want that.”
Her mother’s lips trembled.
Her voice came out small.
“Don’t isolate yourself from us,” her mother whispered.
Belle’s eyes burned.
“Please,” her mother added.
Belle’s throat tightened.
She nodded fast.
“I won’t,” she said. “I promise. I… I want you to still be in my life. I want… holidays. Dinners. Everything.”
Her father watched her.
Then he asked, quietly,
“Can he accept that?”
Belle’s throat tightened.
She thought of Aleem’s voice.
Integration. Not replacement.
Belle nodded.
“He said… he won’t let me isolate,” she whispered. “He said he respects you. He knows you love me. He said it has to be… integration.”
Her father’s jaw flexed.
Her mother wiped her cheek quickly, embarrassed by her own tears.
Then her father did something Belle didn’t expect.
He leaned forward.
His voice was low.
“Belle,” he said. “You’re an adult.”
Belle’s breath hitched.
Her father continued, “If you love someone, you can choose. I can’t lock you in the house.”
A pause.
Then, softer,
“But I can tell you what I fear.”
Belle nodded.
Her voice cracked.
“Tell me.”
Her father’s eyes softened.
He didn’t cry.
He rarely cried.
But his voice held weight.
“I fear you will lose yourself again,” he said quietly. “Not to the boy. Not to religion. To the pressure. To the comments. To the idea that you have to cut yourself into pieces to fit into a new family.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Her mother nodded, tears sliding again.
“Yes,” her mother whispered. “We don’t want you… gone.”
Gone.
The word stabbed.
Belle shook her head quickly.
“I’m not gone,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m trying.”
Her father watched her.
Then he asked, gently,
“Is he kind to you?”
Belle’s eyes burned.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her father nodded.
“Does he respect you?”
Belle nodded. “Yes.”
Her father paused.
Then he asked the question that made Belle’s chest ache.
“Does he respect us?”
Belle swallowed.
Her voice trembled.
“Yes,” she said. “He does. He knows you’re my parents. He… he’s not trying to take me away.”
Her father’s gaze softened.
He leaned back.
Then he said the word that had become his motif.
“Okay.”
Belle’s breath hitched.
Her mother looked at him quickly.
“You okay like that?” her mother whispered, voice sharp with panic.
Her father turned to his wife.
His eyes softened.
“Okay doesn’t mean happy,” he said quietly. “Okay means… we are still her parents. We stay.”
Belle’s tears spilled.
Her mother’s mouth trembled.
Her father looked back at Belle.
“Okay,” he said again. “But you listen. We have one thing.”
Belle nodded fast.
Her father’s voice was firm now.
“Don’t isolate her from us,” he said.
He said it like he was speaking to Aleem.
To the world.
To fate.
Belle nodded hard, crying.
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I won’t.”
Her mother reached across the table and grabbed Belle’s hands.
This time, her mother’s grip was tight.
Not controlling.
Holding.
“Belle,” her mother whispered, voice shaking, “I don’t understand Islam. I don’t understand what you will have to do. But I understand love. And I understand you.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Her mother continued, “If you choose this, we will be scared. But we will still show up. You hear me?”
Show up.
While hurting.
Belle nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her mother sniffed, wiping her tears aggressively.
“But you also must show up for us,” her mother said. “Not only for him. Not only for his family. For us too. Dinner. Visits. Call. Don’t disappear.”
Belle nodded again.
“I won’t,” she promised.
Her father’s eyes stayed steady.
“Then okay,” he said.
The word landed like a blessing and a warning.
Not permission to run.
Permission to stay close.
After the conversation, nothing became magically easy.
They didn’t hug and suddenly understand interfaith marriage.
They didn’t smile and pretend there was no fear.
Her mother went back to cleaning the kitchen like she needed movement to survive her emotions.
Her father returned to the sofa and put the football highlights back on.
Life resumed.
But Belle could feel the shift.
Not rejection.
Not approval.
A new firmness:
We are still here.
Belle stood near the living room doorway.
Her father glanced at her.
He patted the sofa beside him.
Belle sat.
Her father didn’t look at her for a moment.
He watched the screen.
Then he said, quietly,
“When you want to bring him, you tell us.”
Belle’s breath hitched.
“Pa…”
Her father lifted his hand slightly, stopping her apology.
“No need sorry,” he said. “You didn’t do wrong by liking someone.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Her father added, voice low, “But if he wants to be family, he must come properly. Not like thief.”
Belle let out a shaky laugh through tears.
Her father’s mouth twitched faintly.
“Proper,” Belle whispered.
Her father nodded once.
“Proper,” he agreed.
Then, after a beat, he added the thing that made Belle’s chest crack open.
“And you… you don’t be alone again. If you feel like you are falling, you tell us. Okay?”
Okay.
Belle’s eyes burned.
She nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
When Belle finally left the flat later that evening, she stood outside the door for a moment.
She didn’t feel lighter.
She felt… held.
Held by fear.
Held by love.
Held by the knowledge that her parents weren’t abandoning her.
They were choosing closeness.
Even while hurting.
Belle walked toward the lift.
Her phone buzzed.
Aleem.
How?
Belle’s fingers trembled.
She typed slowly:
They’re scared. But they didn’t reject. They said… don’t isolate me from them. Pa said “Okay.”
A moment later, Aleem replied:
Okay. That’s love. I respect them. We will do it properly.
Belle stared at the screen.
Her throat tightened.
Then she typed:
Thank you for not taking.
There was a pause.
Then:
Never. You’re not something to take.
Belle’s breath hitched.
The lift doors opened.
She stepped in.
As the doors closed, Belle wiped her tears.
Not because she was ashamed.
Because she was full.
Fear.
Love.
A road.
But she wasn’t walking it alone.
Her parents were still behind her.
Not blocking.
Holding.
And beside her, a man who kept choosing mercy.
Properly.
Slowly.
One “okay” at a time.