The Day She Didn't Flinch
Chapter 29 – The Day She Didn’t Flinch
The first time Isabelle practiced saying Bismillah, she felt ridiculous.
Not because the phrase was strange.
Because it felt intimate.
Like borrowing someone else’s language for the heart.
She said it softly in her room, alone, as she opened a packet of biscuits.
“Bismillah,” she whispered.
Nothing happened.
No lightning.
No divine sign.
No sudden transformation.
But Isabelle noticed something.
Her mind paused.
A tiny pause.
A breath.
A moment of awareness before action.
And that tiny pause–
that tiny pause felt like peace.
Isabelle didn’t tell Aleem.
Not because she was hiding.
Because she wanted it to be hers.
Not a performance.
Not a report.
Just… hers.
She continued learning.
Quietly.
Properly.
She read about tawhid.
About prophets.
About prayer.
About the idea that God didn’t have intermediaries.
That God was close.
That God was one.
Some parts comforted her.
Some parts unsettled her.
She asked questions.
She sat with discomfort.
She learned the difference between curiosity and conviction.
And slowly–
without any dramatic moment–
Isabelle began to notice something else.
She stopped flinching.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
When fear arrived, she didn’t immediately panic.
When uncertainty rose, she didn’t immediately drown.
When people asked sharp questions, she didn’t collapse.
She held.
She breathed.
She paused.
She chose.
And one day, she realized:
the biggest change was not her beliefs.
It was her backbone.
It showed up in a place Isabelle never expected.
A family gathering.
Not a big event.
Just dinner with extended relatives.
A cousin’s birthday.
Aunties.
Uncles.
The usual chatter.
The usual comparisons.
The usual uninvited questions about marriage.
Isabelle arrived with her parents.
Her mother greeted everyone politely.
Her father stayed quiet.
Isabelle smiled.
She was used to family dinners.
But tonight felt different.
Because Isabelle knew something they didn’t.
Because Isabelle was carrying a secret that wasn’t romance anymore.
It was… faith.
A direction.
A possibility.
And possibilities made people uncomfortable.
It started with a harmless question.
An aunty with loud laughter.
“Belle,” the aunty said brightly, “so how? You got boyfriend already or not?”
Isabelle smiled politely.
Her mother stiffened slightly.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Before, she would have laughed and deflected.
Before, she would have lied.
Before, she would have changed the topic.
But now…
Isabelle didn’t want to keep living in half-truth.
Not after she had begun learning what sincerity meant.
Isabelle inhaled.
Then she answered.
“Yes,” she said softly.
Silence.
The table stilled.
Her mother’s eyes widened.
Her father’s gaze sharpened.
The aunty’s face lit up.
“Aiyoh! Finally!” she squealed. “Who? Who?!”
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
Her mother’s fingers tightened on her chopsticks.
Her father’s shoulders tensed.
Isabelle swallowed.
“A friend,” she said carefully. “Someone I’ve known for years.”
The aunty leaned in.
“Chinese ah?” she demanded.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Here we go.
Isabelle shook her head.
“He’s Muslim,” she said.
The words fell.
A bomb.
The table went quiet.
Some aunties blinked.
Some uncles paused mid-chew.
Her mother’s face tightened.
Her father’s jaw clenched.
The aunty’s smile faltered.
“Muslim?” she repeated.
The tone changed.
Not curiosity.
Alarm.
Fear disguised as concern.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Someone at the table whispered,
“Aiyah… then how?”
Isabelle inhaled.
She felt the old instinct.
The instinct to shrink.
To apologize.
To make everyone comfortable.
But she remembered the pastor’s words.
Don’t stay where your heart is not convinced just to make people comfortable.
She remembered the asatizah’s.
If you believe, be brave enough to admit it.
Isabelle breathed.
Then she did something new.
She didn’t flinch.
“We’re going slow,” she said calmly. “We’re talking properly. My parents know.”
Her mother’s eyes widened.
Her father’s gaze flicked to Isabelle.
Parents know.
That sentence was not supposed to be said at a family dinner.
But Isabelle said it anyway.
Because it was true.
The aunty recovered quickly.
“Muslim means you must convert, right?” she asked bluntly.
The question hit Isabelle.
Old Isabelle would have died.
New Isabelle breathed.
“I’m learning,” she said calmly. “I’m not making decisions yet.”
The aunty’s brows knit.
“Learning?”
The tone was skeptical.
Like Isabelle was joining a cult.
Like Isabelle was being tricked.
Like Isabelle didn’t know herself.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her father’s jaw clenched.
Her mother’s eyes were wet.
Isabelle could feel their fear.
But Isabelle didn’t run from it.
She looked at the aunty.
And she spoke gently.
“I’m not being forced,” she said. “I’m an adult. I’m doing this properly.”
Properly.
That word again.
The aunty frowned.
“What your church say?” she demanded.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I talked to my pastor,” Isabelle said.
The table quieted again.
The aunty blinked.
“You talked to pastor?”
Isabelle nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “He told me questions are part of faith.”
Her mother stared.
Her father’s eyes widened slightly.
Because they didn’t know that.
Isabelle felt her chest tighten.
Oops.
But also…
truth.
The aunty looked unsettled.
“Questions,” she repeated.
Isabelle continued softly.
“I’m not trying to rebel. I’m trying to be honest.”
Silence.
Then another relative spoke.
A younger cousin, curious.
“So your boyfriend… good?”
The question was simple.
No politics.
No fear.
Just human.
Isabelle’s chest softened.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “He’s good.”
The younger cousin smiled.
“Then okay lah,” she said.
The aunty gasped.
“Okay?!” she snapped. “How can okay?!”
The younger cousin shrugged.
“Because Belle happy,” she said.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Belle happy.
Was she?
She was scared.
But yes.
She was also… happier than she had been in a long time.
Her father’s voice finally entered.
Low.
Firm.
“Enough,” he said.
The table stilled.
Her father looked at the aunty.
He didn’t shout.
But his tone held weight.
“My daughter will decide,” he said. “Stop interrogating.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Her mother stared.
The aunty looked offended.
“I’m concerned only,” she muttered.
Her father’s voice stayed firm.
“Concern is fine,” he said. “But talk like you know her life? Not fine.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her father.
Protecting.
Not approving.
But protecting.
Isabelle looked down.
Her eyes burned.
She didn’t want to cry at dinner.
But tears rose anyway.
Because the weight she carried for months–
alone–
was now shared.
Her father had stepped in.
Not blessing.
But standing.
Her mother reached under the table and squeezed Isabelle’s hand.
Isabelle squeezed back.
The dinner moved on.
Awkwardly.
Slowly.
Some relatives changed the topic.
Some stayed quiet.
Some still stared.
But Isabelle noticed something.
She was still breathing.
She was still sitting.
The world didn’t end.
Later that night, Isabelle stood outside the flat corridor while her parents went inside.
Her father turned to her.
His voice was low.
“You didn’t tell me you talked to pastor,” he said.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I… I didn’t want to make it bigger,” she whispered.
Her father stared.
Then he sighed.
“Next time tell me,” he said.
Isabelle blinked.
Not anger.
Not punishment.
Just… request.
Isabelle nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her father’s voice softened slightly.
“You did well just now,” he admitted.
Isabelle froze.
Her father rarely praised.
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
Her father continued, voice strained.
“You didn’t fight,” he said. “You didn’t run. You answered properly.”
Properly.
That word again.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Her father exhaled.
He looked away.
Then he said quietly,
“Just don’t let people bully you.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
She nodded.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
On the way home, Isabelle texted Aleem.
Isabelle: My relatives asked about you. I told them the truth. I didn’t flinch.
His reply came quickly.
Aleem: I’m proud of you.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She stared at the screen.
Proud.
Not because she defended him.
Because she defended herself.
She typed:
Isabelle: My dad defended me too. I think… he’s trying.
Aleem: He is. That’s love. Even when it’s scared.
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Love.
Scared love.
Hard love.
But love.
Isabelle leaned her head against the bus window.
Streetlights blurred.
And Isabelle realized something:
This journey was still messy.
Still uncertain.
Still heavy.
But she was changing.
Not into someone else.
Into someone steadier.
Someone who could hold her own truth without collapsing.
Someone who could stand between two houses…
and not crumble under the doorway.