Mother Bridge
Chapter 42 – Mother Bridge
If fathers aligned in silence,
mothers bridged in everything else.
In food.
In ritual.
In the way they adjusted a sleeve and called it care.
In the way they asked questions that sounded like logistics, but were really grief.
Belle could breathe after Aleem’s man-to-man with her father.
Not because the fear disappeared.
Because the ground felt steadier.
And when ground steadied, the next thing to happen was inevitable.
The mothers.
Not the fathers.
Not the ustazah.
Not ABIX.
The mothers would find each other.
They always did.
Sometimes through warmth.
Sometimes through awkwardness.
Sometimes through a single moment where both realised they were doing the same thing:
trying to love their child into the next stage without losing them.
The mother bridge began on a Thursday afternoon.
With a pot of soup.
Belle’s mother had been quiet all week.
Not distant.
Not cold.
Quiet in a way that said:
I am holding myself together.
Belle noticed.
She didn’t push.
Because Belle had learned the difference between support and pressure.
She simply came home.
She brought fruit.
She sat at the table.
She asked her mother about her day.
Then, on Thursday, her mother asked casually,
“Saturday, you come early?”
Belle blinked.
“Early for what?”
Her mother looked away.
“For… hair,” her mother muttered.
Belle’s chest tightened.
Hair.
Makeup.
Mother-daughter rituals.
The kind Belle thought she might lose.
“Yes,” Belle whispered. “I come.”
Her mother nodded.
Then she said, too casually,
“Aleem’s mother… she like what soup?”
Belle froze.
“Soup?”
Her mother’s eyes flicked up.
“Yes,” her mother said. “Saturday she also come right? For… tea ceremony planning.”
Belle’s throat tightened.
Yes.
Mak was coming.
For planning.
For coordination.
For the bridge.
“I don’t know what soup she likes,” Belle admitted.
Her mother exhaled.
“Okay,” her mother said.
Then she added quickly,
“I can make something simple. Not too Chinese. But still… home.”
Home.
Belle’s eyes burned.
“Why you want to make soup?” Belle whispered.
Her mother didn’t answer immediately.
She kept cutting vegetables.
Then she said quietly,
“If she is going to be… my in-law, I cannot only cry. I must also… do.”
Do.
Acceptance through action.
Belle swallowed.
“Okay,” Belle whispered.
Her mother nodded.
“Okay,” she replied.
Saturday came.
Mak arrived with Ayah.
Aleem arrived with them.
ABIX were not invited.
This was a mothers’ day.
A day of planning.
A day of tradition.
Belle’s father was present but kept himself deliberately in the background.
He sat on the sofa with the newspaper.
A silent anchor.
Ayah sat beside him.
Two men.
Calm.
Watching.
The kitchen became the battlefield.
But not a violent one.
A careful one.
Belle’s mother had prepared ingredients.
Mak walked in, eyes scanning.
She saw the pot.
She saw the chopped vegetables.
She saw the bowl of ingredients.
Mak paused.
Belle’s mother wiped her hands quickly and bowed her head slightly.
“Hello,” Belle’s mother said.
Mak blinked.
“Hello,” Mak replied.
Then Mak pointed.
“You making soup?” Mak asked.
Belle’s mother nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “Simple. Chicken. Ginger.”
Mak stared.
Ginger.
Warm.
Not unfamiliar.
Mak’s face softened slightly.
“Okay,” Mak muttered.
Belle’s mother exhaled.
Then Belle’s mother said, carefully,
“I don’t know if you… eat Chinese soup.”
Mak waved.
“Soup is soup,” Mak said briskly.
Belle’s mother blinked.
Then, because Belle’s mother couldn’t hold awkwardness, she offered the pot like a peace treaty.
“You want to… taste?” Belle’s mother asked.
Mak hesitated.
She didn’t like being offered first.
It felt like debt.
But she stepped forward.
She leaned in.
She smelled.
Then she nodded.
“Good,” Mak said.
Belle’s mother’s shoulders loosened.
“Thank you,” Belle’s mother whispered.
Mak huffed.
“Don’t thank,” Mak muttered. “Later I shy.”
Belle’s mother’s mouth twitched.
A small laugh.
Not joy.
But relief.
They moved to the dining table.
Tea ceremony items laid out.
Red packets.
Tea cups.
A tray.
Belle’s mother handled the Chinese side.
Mak handled the Malay/Muslim side.
And Belle, sitting between them, felt like a bridge made of skin.
Her chest tightened.
Because both mothers were speaking.
Not about ideology.
About details.
Where Belle would sit.
Where Aleem would stand.
When the tea would be served.
How to honour elders.
Belle’s mother spoke softly.
“After nikah… we can do tea ceremony,” she said. “So my parents… can bless.”
Mak nodded.
“Yes,” Mak said. “After. Not before. Because nikah first. Proper.”
Belle’s mother nodded.
“Okay,” Belle’s mother whispered.
Mak’s eyes softened.
“Okay,” Mak replied.
Belle blinked.
Two okays.
Two mothers aligning.
Then came the question Belle feared.
Her mother’s voice turned quiet.
“After marriage,” Belle’s mother said, “where you stay?”
The room tightened.
Mak’s gaze sharpened.
Belle’s stomach dropped.
Aleem’s jaw tightened.
This was the old fear.
Disappearance.
Mak spoke bluntly.
“They already decide,” Mak said. “They stay near. They alternate Sundays. They call. Not disappear.”
Belle’s mother’s eyes filled.
Belle’s mother nodded quickly.
“Yes,” Belle’s mother whispered. “I know. But… I still scared.”
Mak’s mouth tightened.
For a moment, Belle thought Mak would scold.
Instead, Mak exhaled.
Mak looked at Belle’s mother.
Her voice softened awkwardly.
“I also scared,” Mak admitted.
Belle froze.
Mak continued, voice rough,
“He is my son. When he marry, he become husband. I also scared he forget mother. That’s why I scold him. Not because I hate you.”
Belle’s mother blinked.
Her eyes filled.
Mak added quickly,
“I am not good at… talking,” Mak muttered. “I am good at doing.”
Doing.
Belle’s throat tightened.
Belle’s mother’s voice shook.
“I also not good at talking,” Belle’s mother whispered. “I just cry.”
Mak stared.
Then Mak made a sound like a cough.
“Aiyo,” Mak muttered. “Crying also doing. It means you love.”
Belle’s mother’s tears fell.
But she laughed.
A wet laugh.
Mak looked uncomfortable.
Then Mak reached into her bag.
She pulled out a small container.
Wrapped carefully.
“What is that?” Belle’s mother asked.
Mak shoved it toward her.
“Kueh,” Mak said. “I make. For you.”
Belle’s mother froze.
Mak’s eyes widened like she had already regretted being soft.
“Not because you sad,” Mak snapped. “Because you are… mother also.”
Belle’s mother’s throat closed.
She took the container.
Her hands trembled.
“Thank you,” Belle’s mother whispered.
Mak waved.
“Okay lah,” Mak muttered.
Belle’s mother whispered,
“Okay.”
Mak huffed.
“Okay,” Mak replied.
The bridge.
Not built with speeches.
Built with kueh.
Soup.
A shared confession of fear.
In the living room, the fathers watched.
Belle’s father glanced up from his newspaper.
He looked at Ayah.
Ayah’s lips twitched.
Two men, watching their wives negotiate the world.
Belle’s father murmured,
“They are… fierce.”
Ayah nodded.
“Yes,” Ayah replied. “But good.”
Belle’s father exhaled a short laugh.
“Okay,” Belle’s father said.
Ayah nodded.
“Okay,” Ayah replied.
By the end of the afternoon, the table was covered in notes.
Tea ceremony sequence.
Who to serve first.
How to seat elders.
Where to place gifts.
What to say.
What not to say.
Mak stood to leave.
Belle’s mother followed her to the door.
Mak hesitated.
Then she said abruptly,
“Your soup… good.”
Belle’s mother blinked.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Mak cleared her throat.
“I can teach you… one recipe,” Mak muttered. “Malay style. If you want.”
Belle’s mother stared.
Her eyes filled instantly.
“Yes,” Belle’s mother whispered. “I want.”
Mak nodded briskly.
“Okay,” Mak said.
Belle’s mother nodded.
“Okay,” she replied.
Then Mak looked at Belle.
Her voice was firm.
“Take care,” Mak ordered.
Belle’s throat tightened.
“Yes, Auntie,” Belle whispered.
Mak huffed.
“Soon not Auntie,” Mak muttered.
Belle’s breath hitched.
Soon.
Mak didn’t look at her.
She just put on her shoes.
And left.
After the door closed, Belle’s mother stood still.
She held the kueh container like it was fragile.
Belle stepped closer.
“Mummy,” Belle whispered.
Her mother’s voice broke.
“She gave me kueh,” her mother whispered, as if she couldn’t believe it.
Belle’s eyes burned.
“Yes,” Belle whispered.
Her mother looked at Belle.
Her voice was thick.
“That means… she is trying,” her mother whispered.
Belle nodded.
“Yes,” Belle whispered.
Her mother exhaled.
“Okay,” her mother said.
Belle nodded.
“Okay,” Belle replied.
That night, Belle lay beside Aleem.
Not sleeping.
Just breathing.
Aleem’s voice was quiet.
“How was today?” he asked.
Belle exhaled.
“Our mothers,” Belle whispered, “they… they built something.”
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“Yes,” he said.
Belle’s throat tightened.
“Mak offered to teach my mum a recipe,” Belle whispered.
Aleem’s mouth twitched faintly.
“That means she likes her,” Aleem said.
Belle smiled into the dark.
“Is that her love language?” Belle asked.
Aleem’s voice was low.
“Yes,” he replied. “Food is Mak’s apology and Mak’s affection.”
Belle’s eyes stung.
Then she whispered,
“I thought the bridge would break.”
Aleem’s hand reached for hers.
He squeezed.
“It’s holding,” he murmured.
Belle squeezed back.
“Okay,” Belle whispered.
Aleem’s voice was soft.
“Okay.”
And in the quiet, Belle realised this was how families integrated.
Not with perfect acceptance.
With imperfect mothers choosing to try.
Soup.
Kueh.
Fear said out loud.
And a bridge built one small act at a time.