The First Question from Home
Chapter 19 – The First Question from Home
Isabelle’s mother noticed the shawl.
Not immediately.
Not dramatically.
But Isabelle should have known–
mothers noticed everything.
It happened on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
Isabelle was at her parents’ place, sitting at the dining table with a bowl of soup in front of her.
Her father was watching TV in the living room.
Her mother moved around the kitchen like she always did, efficient and familiar.
Everything was normal.
Safe.
Except Isabelle’s heart wasn’t.
Because in her bag, tucked between her wallet and her keys, was the folded shawl.
The one she had worn to the mosque.
A simple piece of fabric.
Nothing suspicious.
But it felt like contraband.
Isabelle told herself she was overthinking.
Then her mother looked at her.
“Belle,” her mother said casually, “you’ve been wearing longer sleeves lately.”
Isabelle’s spoon froze mid-air.
Her chest tightened.
Longer sleeves.
That’s what her mother noticed.
Not the shawl.
Not the booklet.
Not the shift in Isabelle’s energy.
The sleeves.
Isabelle forced her hand to move again.
She scooped soup.
She swallowed.
She smiled lightly.
“Yeah,” she said. “Aircon in office cold.”
Her mother hummed.
Not convinced.
But not accusing.
Just watching.
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
She took another sip.
Her mother continued, voice still casual.
“And you’ve been going out more,” her mother added.
Isabelle’s stomach dropped.
Going out more.
Isabelle forced herself to laugh.
“ABIX lah,” she said quickly. “Crystal keep asking us meet.”
Her mother nodded slowly.
“Mm,” she said.
Isabelle tried to breathe.
In.
Out.
Then her mother sat down across from her.
Just like that.
No warning.
She wiped her hands on a towel.
She looked at Isabelle.
And Isabelle felt the shift.
The moment when casual becomes serious.
Her mother’s voice softened.
“Belle,” she asked gently, “are you okay?”
Isabelle froze.
That question.
It was Aleem’s question.
But from her mother, it meant something different.
It meant:
I’ve been watching you.
I see something.
Tell me.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She wanted to say yes.
She wanted to say no.
She wanted to say everything.
She wanted to say nothing.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I’m okay,” she said softly.
Her mother’s eyes held hers.
“You look better,” her mother said.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Better.
That word felt like both comfort and danger.
Because better meant Isabelle had changed.
Better meant her mother would ask why.
Her mother continued.
“You were very sad earlier this year,” she said gently. “After… you know.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
The breakup.
The almost-wedding.
The future that collapsed.
Isabelle nodded.
Her mother’s voice was careful.
“I didn’t push you because I know you need time,” she said. “But now… you look like you’re breathing again.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Breathing again.
Her mother reached across the table and touched Isabelle’s hand.
Isabelle flinched slightly.
Not because the touch was bad.
Because she wasn’t used to being held at home.
Her mother’s thumb rubbed gently.
“Did something change?” her mother asked.
Isabelle’s heart hammered.
Something.
Yes.
Everything.
Aleem.
Islam.
The calm.
The secret.
Isabelle swallowed.
Her mouth went dry.
She chose the smallest truth.
“I… met with an asatizah,” Isabelle said quietly.
The sentence fell into the kitchen like a stone.
Her mother’s hand stilled.
Her eyes widened a fraction.
Then her mother’s face changed.
Not anger.
Not screaming.
A tightening.
Concern.
Fear.
Isabelle’s stomach dropped.
“Why?” her mother asked.
Her voice wasn’t harsh.
But it held weight.
Why.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Because of Aleem.
Because of love.
Because of marriage.
Because I’m curious.
Because it feels peaceful.
Because I want to know.
Isabelle couldn’t say all of it.
Not yet.
So she tried to be honest without detonating.
“I’ve been curious,” she said softly. “And… I wanted to understand properly. Not from the internet.”
Her mother stared.
Silence stretched.
From the living room, Isabelle’s father laughed at something on TV.
The sound felt wrong.
Like life continued while Isabelle’s world tightened.
Her mother’s voice came quieter.
“Belle,” she said carefully, “are you converting?”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
No.
Not yet.
Not sure.
Isabelle shook her head quickly.
“No,” she said. “I’m not converting. I’m just learning.”
Her mother watched her.
Her eyes searched Isabelle’s face like she was looking for something hidden.
Isabelle’s palms sweated.
Her mother’s voice softened.
“Why now?” she asked.
Isabelle swallowed.
Because I broke.
Because I needed peace.
Because I met someone steady.
Because I’m with Aleem.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She could avoid the name.
But her mother would sense it.
Isabelle decided to step forward.
A small step.
Not the whole cliff.
“I’ve been spending more time with Aleem,” she admitted quietly.
Her mother blinked.
“Aleem?” she echoed.
Isabelle nodded.
Her mother’s brows drew together.
“The Malay boy?”
Isabelle winced.
Not because it was inaccurate.
Because it sounded like a label.
“Yes,” Isabelle whispered.
Her mother stared.
Understanding clicked.
Not the full story.
But enough.
Her mother’s voice tightened.
“Belle,” she said carefully, “are you dating him?”
Isabelle’s heart slammed.
This was it.
The first real question.
The first crack.
The moment the secret touched home.
Isabelle swallowed.
She couldn’t lie.
Not now.
Not to her mother’s face.
Not after her mother had watched her drown.
Isabelle’s voice shook.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But… it’s new. We’re going slow.”
Her mother’s face shifted.
Shock.
Worry.
A tightness Isabelle hadn’t seen since the breakup.
Her mother’s hand pulled away.
Not cruelly.
Instinctively.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her mother’s voice came low.
“Belle,” she said, “you know what that means, right?”
Isabelle nodded.
Religion.
Family.
Expectations.
Different worlds.
Her mother’s eyes looked wet.
Not tears yet.
Just emotion hovering.
“I don’t want you to get hurt again,” her mother whispered.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I know,” she whispered back.
Her mother’s voice trembled slightly.
“And I don’t want you to lose your faith,” she added.
Lose.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I’m not trying to lose anything,” Isabelle said softly. “I’m trying to understand.”
Her mother stared.
Silence.
The kitchen felt too quiet.
Isabelle’s father laughed again in the living room.
Isabelle wanted to cry.
But she held it.
Her mother’s voice came out strained.
“Does he want you to convert?” she asked.
Isabelle shook her head quickly.
“No,” she said. “He told me not to convert for him. He told me to learn properly. He said… God is not in a rush.”
Her mother blinked.
The sentence surprised her.
It sounded… gentle.
Her mother’s expression wavered.
A fraction of her fear loosened.
But only a fraction.
Her mother exhaled.
“I don’t know how to feel,” she admitted quietly.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
That honesty hurt.
But it was better than rage.
Isabelle reached across the table.
This time, Isabelle touched her mother’s hand.
Her mother didn’t pull away.
Isabelle’s voice shook.
“Mom,” she whispered, “I’m not doing this to rebel. I’m not doing this because I’m desperate. Aleem… he’s been good to me. He helped me when I was… really low.”
Her mother’s eyes softened slightly.
Still worried.
But softened.
Isabelle continued, voice trembling.
“And I’m not making decisions yet,” she said. “I just… I want to learn. I want to see if this peace I feel… is real.”
Her mother stared.
Her face was conflicted.
She looked like someone trying to hold two loves at once:
love for her daughter
and love for her own beliefs.
Her mother’s voice went quiet.
“Does your father know?” she asked.
Isabelle’s stomach dropped.
Dad.
Her father would be harder.
Not cruel.
But firm.
Protective.
A man who had already watched his daughter nearly break.
Isabelle shook her head.
“Not yet,” she whispered.
Her mother nodded slowly.
Silence.
Then her mother spoke, softly.
“Belle,” she said, “I need time.”
Time.
The word hit Isabelle like an echo.
Aleem.
Now her mother.
Time.
Isabelle nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her mother’s eyes filled, finally.
“I love you,” her mother said.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I love you too,” Isabelle whispered.
Her mother squeezed Isabelle’s hand.
Not approving.
Not blessing.
But not rejecting.
Just holding.
And Isabelle realized something:
This was the beginning of the real journey.
Not the dates.
Not the secret.
Not even the mosque.
Home.
Family.
The people who raised her.
The people whose hearts she could break without meaning to.
Isabelle swallowed.
Her chest ached.
But beneath the ache was something steadier.
A quiet courage.
Because now, she wasn’t just choosing Aleem.
She was choosing to be honest.
Slowly.
Carefully.
One question at a time.
And that–
that was the hardest kind of love.