When the Questions Came
Chapter 42 – When the Questions Came
After the family photo, Isabelle’s relatives stopped pretending.
The photo had been sent around.
WhatsApp groups.
Family chats.
Aunties zooming in like detectives.
Uncles pretending not to care while still forwarding it.
Someone circled Aleem’s face and wrote:
WHO DIS?
Isabelle saw it because her cousin had sent it to her with laughing emojis.
Isabelle didn’t laugh.
Because jokes were how families hid tension.
And tension was coming.
It came on a Wednesday.
Not at dinner.
Not in a formal meeting.
It came through a voice note from an aunty Isabelle barely spoke to.
Aunty May: Belle ah, I saw your photo. That boy Muslim ah? You very brave ah. But don’t play play. Your parents okay or not? You converted already is it?
Isabelle stared at the screen.
The message was not cruel.
It was worse.
It was casual.
Like religion was a hairstyle change.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her mother was in the kitchen.
Her father was watching TV.
They didn’t know the relatives were already sniffing.
Isabelle exhaled.
She forwarded the voice note to her mother.
Not because she wanted to hurt her.
Because secrecy was poison.
Her mother listened.
And Isabelle watched the way her mother’s face changed.
A flinch.
A tightening.
The start of panic.
Her mother’s lips trembled.
“They know already,” her mother whispered.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Not everything,” she whispered. “But they’re asking.”
Her mother’s eyes filled.
“What you want to do?” she whispered.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
This was the choice.
Hide until the questions became gossip.
Or speak before the gossip wrote the story.
Isabelle inhaled.
“I want to tell them properly,” she said softly.
Her mother’s shoulders shook.
Her father looked up.
“What tell?” he demanded.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Aunties asking,” she whispered. “They saw photo.”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
He stared at Isabelle’s phone.
Then he muttered,
“Knew it.”
He stood.
Paced once.
Then said harshly,
“They will talk.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“I know,” she whispered.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“Why you send your parents into fire?” he snapped.
Isabelle flinched.
Her mother sobbed.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I didn’t send,” Isabelle whispered. “I didn’t post. They took photo. They share. I can’t control.”
Her father’s jaw clenched.
He exhaled.
“Then we control now,” he said.
Isabelle froze.
Control.
Her father’s voice was sharp.
“We invite them,” he said. “One day. One lunch. We tell. We finish.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Her father initiating again.
Not hiding.
Not running.
Her mother cried.
“No,” she whispered. “So many people…”
Her father snapped,
“Better now than whispers behind back!”
Isabelle swallowed.
Her heart pounded.
A family announcement.
A controlled reveal.
It sounded terrifying.
But maybe it was the only way.
Isabelle whispered,
“Okay.”
Her father stared.
Then he said, low,
“You must be there. You answer. Not me.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her father’s mouth tightened.
“And Aleem,” he added. “He come.”
Isabelle blinked.
Aleem.
Coming.
Into the fire.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“I… okay,” she whispered.
Her father exhaled.
“Then call him,” he said.
Isabelle’s hands trembled as she texted.
Isabelle: Family asking questions. My dad wants to do a lunch and tell them properly. He wants you there.
The reply came.
Aleem: Okay. I’ll come. Tell me what I should say and what I shouldn’t.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Always.
What not to do.
Respect first.
The lunch was set for Sunday.
Isabelle’s father chose a restaurant.
Not too fancy.
Not too casual.
Neutral.
A place with private rooms.
Because her father didn’t want the whole restaurant listening.
He didn’t tell everyone.
Only the closest relatives.
A few aunties.
A few uncles.
Grandmother.
Cousins who would definitely talk anyway.
Isabelle’s mother was nervous all week.
She cried in the bathroom.
Isabelle heard.
Isabelle didn’t knock.
She just waited outside.
Then when her mother came out with red eyes, Isabelle hugged her.
Her mother didn’t hug back fully.
But she didn’t pull away.
Halfway.
Trying.
Isabelle whispered,
“We’ll do it properly.”
Her mother whispered,
“I’m scared.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“Me too,” she admitted.
On Sunday, Aleem arrived early.
Not in the restaurant.
Outside.
Because he didn’t want to walk in alone like he was claiming territory.
Isabelle’s father arrived with Isabelle’s mother.
Isabelle’s father saw Aleem standing there.
He nodded once.
Aleem bowed his head.
“Uncle. Aunty.”
Isabelle’s mother’s lips trembled.
She nodded weakly.
They walked in together.
Not as one family.
Not yet.
But as people who had agreed to face gossip with truth.
The private room filled slowly.
Aunties with sharp eyes.
Uncles with judgment disguised as jokes.
Grandmother sitting like a queen.
Cousins whispering.
Phones already out.
Isabelle’s stomach churned.
Her father sat at the head of the table.
Aleem sat at Isabelle’s side but slightly behind.
Not dominating.
Present.
Her mother sat beside Isabelle.
Hands trembling.
Isabelle’s father cleared his throat.
The room quieted.
Then he said, flat,
“You all have questions.”
A few aunties laughed awkwardly.
Her father didn’t smile.
He continued.
“So we answer,” he said. “Then after that, you stop gossip.”
The room went still.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her father looked at Isabelle.
His gaze was sharp.
Then he said the sentence that made Isabelle’s throat tighten.
“My daughter is Muslim now,” he announced.
Silence.
Then:
“Aiyo.”
“Wah.”
“Really ah?”
“Why like that?”
Isabelle’s mother’s eyes filled.
Grandmother didn’t look shocked.
She looked like she already knew.
Isabelle’s father held up a hand.
“Quiet,” he snapped.
The room quieted.
Then her father added, voice rough,
“She chose. Nobody forced.”
He glanced at Aleem.
Then back at the relatives.
“She chose,” he repeated.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her father–
protecting her.
Again.
Even while hurting.
One aunty spoke.
“But why?”
Isabelle inhaled.
Her father pointed.
“She answer,” he said.
Isabelle’s hands trembled.
She looked around the room.
So many eyes.
So many assumptions.
So much gossip waiting to hatch.
Isabelle swallowed.
Then she spoke.
“I learned,” she said softly. “For months. I asked questions. I went alone. I did it because I believe God is one.”
The room was quiet.
A cousin whispered,
“Because boyfriend lah.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her father snapped,
“Shut up.”
The cousin froze.
Silence.
Then her father looked at the room.
His voice was low.
“Anybody say my daughter convert for boyfriend, you say in front of me,” he said.
The room went dead.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her mother’s tears spilled.
Her grandmother cackled suddenly.
“Good,” she said, amused. “You finally speak like man.”
A few relatives laughed nervously.
Isabelle’s father ignored them.
One uncle cleared his throat.
“Then… what about marriage?”
Isabelle’s stomach dropped.
The question.
The unavoidable one.
Isabelle’s father glanced at Aleem.
Then he said, flat,
“They are together. Intent for marriage. But no rush.”
No rush.
Proper.
Aleem nodded.
An aunty asked sharply,
“You already pregnant?”
Isabelle flinched.
Her mother gasped.
Isabelle’s cheeks burned.
Aleem’s jaw tightened.
Isabelle’s father slammed his hand on the table.
“Enough,” he snapped.
The room froze.
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
Her father’s voice was harsh.
“You want to ask questions, ask with respect,” he said. “Not insult.”
The aunty muttered, embarrassed.
“Just asking…”
Isabelle’s father’s eyes narrowed.
“You ask like you already decided she dirty,” he said.
Silence.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father–
still hurting.
Still angry.
But defending.
A strange kind of love.
After that, the questions softened.
More practical.
More curious.
“What she eat now?”
“Can she still do ancestor prayer?”
“Can she still come reunion dinner?”
Isabelle answered carefully.
Yes to family gatherings.
No to worship rituals.
Yes to love.
No to pretending.
Her mother cried quietly.
Her grandmother watched Isabelle like she was measuring her strength.
Then grandmother spoke.
“Belle still Belle,” she said loudly. “You all stop talk.”
The room fell quiet.
Grandmother pointed at Aleem.
“You,” she said. “Take care of her. Don’t let her cry.”
Aleem bowed his head.
“Yes, ah ma,” he said.
Grandmother nodded.
“Good,” she declared.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Grandmother’s approval was loud.
Her father’s approval was silent.
Her mother’s approval was still in progress.
But the room had heard the truth.
Not from gossip.
From Isabelle.
From her father.
From her own mouth.
And when the lunch ended, the relatives left one by one.
Some awkward.
Some curious.
Some still judging.
But the story was now set.
Not perfect.
But real.
Outside the restaurant, Isabelle exhaled like she had been underwater.
Her mother leaned against the wall, exhausted.
Her father loosened his collar.
Then he muttered,
“Okay. Done.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Done.
Not solved.
But announced.
The questions would still exist.
But now, they had been faced.
And Isabelle realized:
Sometimes love wasn’t people smiling at your choices.
Sometimes love was a father slamming his hand on a table to stop disrespect.
Sometimes love was a mother still crying but still showing up.
Sometimes love was a boyfriend sitting quietly and letting your father take the front.
And sometimes love was simply:
telling the truth before gossip could.