The Father Conversation
Chapter 20 – The Father Conversation
Isabelle’s mother didn’t tell her father immediately.
Not because she was hiding it forever.
Because she knew her husband.
She knew the shape of his love.
Her father loved like a wall.
Solid.
Protective.
Sometimes immovable.
And Isabelle–Isabelle had spent the last year watching walls crumble.
She didn’t want to crash into another one.
So her mother waited.
Two days.
Three.
A whole week.
Isabelle lived inside that waiting like she was holding her breath.
Every ring of her phone made her stomach drop.
Every family dinner invitation felt like an ambush.
Aleem noticed.
Of course he did.
He didn’t force her to talk.
He didn’t rush the process.
He only asked, softly, after she went quiet in a café one evening:
“Did you tell your dad?”
Isabelle swallowed.
“No,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
No judgement.
No disappointment.
Just steady acceptance.
Then, gently:
“When you do… do you want me to be there?”
Isabelle froze.
Her breath caught.
Be there.
The idea was both comforting and terrifying.
If Aleem was there, it meant this was real.
If Aleem was there, it meant it wasn’t just a secret season.
It was a real relationship stepping into daylight.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
Aleem nodded.
“That’s fine,” he said. “No rush.”
He paused.
Then added quietly,
“But Belle, you shouldn’t carry this alone.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
She nodded.
Not promising.
But hearing him.
The conversation with her father happened on a Friday night.
Not planned.
Not scheduled.
It happened because her mother finally ran out of patience.
Or courage.
Or both.
Isabelle came home from work to find her father sitting at the dining table.
No TV.
No phone.
Just him.
Still.
Waiting.
Isabelle’s stomach dropped.
Her mother was in the kitchen, pretending to wash dishes that were already clean.
She didn’t look at Isabelle.
She couldn’t.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father’s voice was calm.
“Sit down,” he said.
Isabelle’s legs felt heavy.
She sat.
Her father’s eyes studied her.
Not angry.
Not shouting.
Just… measuring.
That was worse.
Because shouting was easy.
Measuring meant he was deciding what kind of daughter she was.
Her father spoke.
“Your mother told me you’ve been meeting a religious teacher,” he said.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her mother finally turned.
Her eyes were wet.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her father’s gaze stayed steady.
“Why?” he asked.
One word.
Heavy.
Isabelle’s mouth went dry.
She could lie.
She could minimize.
But she had already lied enough.
So she said the truth.
“Because I’m dating someone Muslim,” she whispered.
Silence.
The air thickened.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t speak for a long moment.
Isabelle’s hands trembled on her lap.
Her father finally asked,
“Who?”
Isabelle swallowed.
“Aleem,” she whispered. “From ABIX.”
Her father blinked.
He had heard the name.
He had seen photos.
He had watched Isabelle’s friends become part of her life.
Her father’s voice grew slightly sharper.
“The tall one?”
Isabelle nodded.
Her father stared.
Then he asked,
“How long?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Since Hokkaido,” she admitted. “We… decided there.”
Her father’s brows drew together.
“Hokkaido,” he repeated, like the word tasted bitter.
Isabelle flinched.
Her father’s voice dropped.
“So you went overseas and came back with this?”
The sentence hit Isabelle like a slap.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was dismissive.
Like her feelings were a souvenir.
Isabelle’s eyes stung.
“It’s not like that,” she whispered.
Her father’s gaze hardened.
“Then what is it like?” he asked.
Isabelle’s throat closed.
She struggled.
Her mother stepped in gently.
“He has been helping her,” her mother said softly. “After the breakup.”
Her father’s eyes flicked to her mother.
His voice tightened.
“Helping,” he repeated.
Isabelle’s stomach dropped.
Her father’s mind was going exactly where she feared.
A vulnerable daughter.
A helpful man.
A moral suspicion.
Her father looked back at Isabelle.
“Are you doing this because you’re still broken?” he asked.
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Tears rose.
She shook her head fiercely.
“No,” she whispered. “No. I’m not… I’m not doing this because I’m desperate.”
Her father stared.
“Then why?” he asked again.
Isabelle’s voice shook.
“Because he’s good to me,” she said. “Because he respects me. Because he didn’t take advantage of me when I was low. Because he… he made me feel safe.”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
“Safe,” he echoed.
His voice grew quieter.
“And now you want to change religion for him?”
Isabelle flinched.
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m not changing. I’m learning. I’m exploring.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“Exploring,” he repeated.
The word sounded ridiculous in his mouth.
Like a hobby.
Like something people did when they didn’t understand consequences.
Her father leaned back slightly.
His voice dropped.
“Belle,” he said, “you know this is not simple.”
Isabelle nodded, tears slipping.
“I know,” she whispered.
Her father continued, voice firm.
“If you marry him, what happens?” he asked. “Do you become Muslim? Do you raise your children Muslim? Do you stop coming to church? Do you stop celebrating Christmas with us?”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
The questions hit like bullets.
Because she didn’t have answers.
Not yet.
She didn’t want to promise.
She didn’t want to lie.
Isabelle’s voice trembled.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted.
Her father’s face hardened.
“You don’t know,” he repeated.
Disapproval sharpened his words.
“Then why are you doing this?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Because I love him.
She couldn’t say it.
Not yet.
Because saying love would make it worse.
Love would sound like blind rebellion.
So she said the truth she could.
“Because I want to understand before I decide,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be ignorant.”
Her father stared.
His voice grew colder.
“Your mother said you went to a mosque.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her father exhaled sharply.
His hand clenched.
He looked away.
For a moment, Isabelle saw something rare.
Fear.
Her father was afraid.
Afraid of losing her.
Afraid of losing the daughter he raised.
Afraid of religion becoming a wall between them.
Her father spoke again, voice strained.
“Do you understand how people will talk?” he asked.
Isabelle flinched.
People.
Aunties.
Uncles.
Church friends.
Family gossip.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I don’t care about people,” she whispered.
Her father’s gaze snapped back.
“You should,” he said sharply. “Because people’s words hurt. And when you get hurt again, who picks you up? Me. Your mother.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
The sentence wasn’t cruel.
It was love.
Hard love.
Protective love.
Isabelle’s voice broke.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know you’re scared. But I’m not trying to leave you.”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
Then he said the sentence Isabelle had been dreading.
“Then break up.”
The words fell.
Final.
Isabelle froze.
Her mother gasped quietly.
Isabelle’s throat closed.
Her father’s voice stayed firm.
“Break up,” he repeated. “Don’t put yourself through this. Don’t put us through this. You already went through one heartbreak. Why choose another?”
Isabelle’s breath trembled.
Aleem.
His steadiness.
His care.
His boundaries.
The peace she felt in prayer halls.
The calm that had been growing.
Isabelle shook her head slowly.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
Her father stared.
The refusal shocked him.
Because Isabelle had always been the obedient one.
The quiet one.
The one who avoided conflict.
Now she was saying no.
Her father’s voice tightened.
“Why?”
Isabelle’s voice shook.
“Because… this is not just romance,” she whispered. “This is… I don’t know how to explain. But it’s helping me become myself again. It’s not destroying me. It’s… steady.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
Steady.
He didn’t like the word.
Because it sounded like Isabelle had found a new anchor.
And anchors threatened fathers.
Her father’s voice became quiet.
“Does he know we’re talking?”
Isabelle swallowed.
“No,” she admitted. “Not yet.”
Her father nodded slowly.
Then he said,
“Bring him.”
Isabelle froze.
Her mother’s eyes widened.
Isabelle’s heart slammed.
“Dad–”
Her father raised his hand.
“Bring him,” he repeated. “If he is serious, he comes here. He looks me in the eye. He tells me what he intends.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
This was not approval.
But it wasn’t dismissal either.
It was a test.
A gate.
Her father’s voice hardened.
“And Belle,” he said, “if he is playing with you, I will know.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“He’s not,” she whispered.
Her father stared.
“We will see,” he said.
That night, Isabelle lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Her throat hurt from holding back tears.
Her chest felt bruised.
Her phone sat beside her.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she typed:
Isabelle: My dad knows.
She stared.
Sent.
The reply came almost immediately.
Aleem: Okay. You okay?
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
Of course he asked that first.
She typed:
Isabelle: He wants to meet you.
There was a pause.
Longer.
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
Then:
Aleem: Okay.
Just that.
No panic.
No excuses.
No fear.
A steadiness that made Isabelle’s throat tighten.
She typed quickly, fingers trembling.
Isabelle: He told me to break up. I said no.
A longer pause.
Isabelle’s heart hammered.
Then:
Aleem: Thank you for telling me. I’m proud of you.
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Proud.
She didn’t know what to do with that word.
She typed:
Isabelle: I’m scared.
His reply came:
Aleem: I know. But you won’t do it alone. I’ll meet him.
Isabelle stared at the message.
The bruised feeling in her chest softened.
Not gone.
But steadied.
Isabelle typed:
Isabelle: Okay. Goodnight.
Aleem: Goodnight, Belle. Sleep. We talk tomorrow.
Isabelle closed her eyes.
Her father’s words still echoed.
Break up.
But over that echo was Aleem’s message.
I’ll meet him.
And Isabelle realized something:
This was the real beginning.
The point where love stopped being private comfort.
And became courage.