The First Time He Said "Dad"
Chapter 43 – The First Time He Said “Dad”
It happened in a doorway.
Not during a grand speech.
Not during a formal dinner.
Not in front of aunties.
Just a simple Saturday evening, when Isabelle’s father was carrying two plastic bags of groceries and the lift doors were closing too quickly.
Isabelle had been beside him, reaching for one bag.
Her father snapped,
“Don’t touch. Heavy.”
Because that was his love language.
Protect.
Control.
Carry.
Then Aleem appeared.
He had been waiting downstairs, leaning against the void deck pillar like a patient shadow.
He stood when he saw them.
Not rushing.
Not intruding.
Just… ready.
“Uncle,” he greeted.
Isabelle’s father grunted.
Then Aleem stepped forward naturally.
“Let me,” Aleem said.
Isabelle’s father narrowed his eyes.
“I can carry,” he muttered.
Aleem didn’t argue.
He just held out his hands.
Calm.
Steady.
Not challenging.
Offering.
Her father hesitated.
Then shoved the bags into Aleem’s arms like he was punishing him.
“Carry lah,” her father muttered. “You want help so much.”
Isabelle swallowed a smile.
Aleem didn’t laugh.
He just nodded.
“Yes, uncle.”
They rode the lift up.
Three of them.
Tight space.
Tighter silence.
Isabelle stared at the floor numbers like they were a prayer.
Aleem held the bags quietly.
Her father stared ahead.
Then, unexpectedly, her father spoke.
“You know,” he said, voice low, “your mother… still cry sometimes.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem’s jaw tightened too.
He didn’t pretend he didn’t hear.
“I know, uncle,” he said softly.
Her father’s mouth tightened.
He didn’t say:
It’s your fault.
He didn’t say:
You better fix it.
He just said,
“She loves Belle,” his father muttered.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I know,” Aleem said again, gentler. “And I respect her pain.”
The lift reached their floor.
Doors opened.
They walked to the flat.
Aleem carried the bags like he belonged to the hallway now.
Not inside.
But close.
Close enough.
Inside the house, Isabelle’s mother was in the kitchen.
She looked up when the door opened.
Her gaze landed on Aleem carrying grocery bags.
Her lips trembled.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Just the strange discomfort of seeing the man who changed her daughter now doing something… domestic.
Human.
Aleem placed the bags on the table.
Then he stepped back.
“Thank you for letting me help,” he said politely.
Isabelle’s mother nodded weakly.
Isabelle’s father grunted.
He walked to the sink.
Washed his hands.
Then he said, low,
“Aleem, come. Sit.”
Isabelle froze.
Aleem blinked.
Then he nodded.
“Yes, uncle.”
He sat.
Not lounging.
Straight posture.
Hands on lap.
Guest.
Isabelle sat nearby.
Heart pounding.
Her father poured tea.
Not for Aleem.
For himself.
Then, after a long silence, he asked,
“You pray already?”
Isabelle blinked.
What.
Her father was asking Aleem.
Aleem answered calmly.
“Yes, uncle. Earlier.”
Her father nodded once.
Then he said,
“So you okay with Belle praying here?”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“Yes, uncle,” he said. “It’s her home too.”
Her father’s mouth tightened.
He stared at his tea.
Then he asked the question that made Isabelle’s throat tighten.
“You will take her away?”
Aleem went still.
Isabelle’s heart slammed.
Take her away.
The fear behind everything.
Aleem inhaled.
He answered slowly.
“Uncle,” he said softly, “I will marry her, yes. But I won’t take her away from you.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“How you not take?”
Aleem’s voice remained calm.
“Because she will still come home,” he said. “Because you will still be her parents. Because she will still be your daughter. Marriage changes roles, but it doesn’t erase family.”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
He stared at Aleem.
Then he asked, blunt,
“You understand Chinese family or not?”
Isabelle bit her lip.
Aleem blinked.
Then he said something unexpected.
“My mother is Malay,” he said. “But she grew up in a kampung where Chinese neighbors were like family. I’m not Chinese, uncle. But I understand… face, elders, respect. And I’m learning.”
Her father stared.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Learning.
Not claiming mastery.
Not dismissing.
Just learning.
Her father’s mouth tightened.
Then he said low,
“You better learn fast.”
Isabelle’s cheeks heated.
Aleem nodded.
“Yes, uncle,” he said.
The tea cooled.
The room stayed quiet.
Then Isabelle’s mother spoke, softly.
“Aleem,” she whispered.
Aleem turned.
“Yes, aunty?”
Her mother’s voice trembled.
“When you marry,” she whispered, “you will let Belle come back for… CNY?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Aleem’s eyes softened.
“Yes, aunty,” he said. “Of course.”
Her mother’s eyes filled.
“And… Christmas?” she whispered, like the word was fragile.
Aleem paused.
Not because he wanted to refuse.
Because he wanted to answer properly.
“Yes,” he said gently. “She can come for the gathering. She can be with family. She will just not worship in ways that conflict. But she will be there.”
Isabelle’s mother’s lips trembled.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her father grunted.
Then, unexpectedly, he pushed his tea aside.
He looked at Aleem.
His voice was low.
“When you marry, where you stay?”
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
BTO.
Housing.
The practical questions.
The ones that meant he was imagining it.
Aleem answered calmly.
“We haven’t decided yet,” he said. “If uncle prefers, we can stay near. Or we can visit often. We can discuss. I won’t decide without Belle.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“Good,” he muttered.
Then he leaned back.
And for the first time, Isabelle saw something in her father’s face.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Tiredness.
The tiredness of holding a wall up for months.
Her father stared at Aleem.
Then he said quietly,
“You call your father what?”
Isabelle blinked.
Aleem looked surprised.
“My… father?”
Her father nodded.
Aleem hesitated.
“Ayah,” he said.
Her father nodded slowly.
“Ayah,” he repeated, tasting the word.
Then he looked at Aleem.
“And you call me what?”
Isabelle froze.
Aleem’s throat moved.
His gaze flicked to Isabelle.
Then back to her father.
He didn’t answer quickly.
Because he understood.
This wasn’t a casual question.
This was a gate.
A cultural bridge.
A permission wrapped as a test.
Aleem inhaled.
“Uncle,” he began.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“After marriage,” her father said, voice rough, “you still call me uncle?”
Silence.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem’s hands clenched slightly.
Then he answered.
“Dad,” he said.
The word landed in the room like a plate placed carefully on a table.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… deliberate.
Isabelle’s throat tightened instantly.
Her mother inhaled sharply.
Her father went still.
The wall–
the wall paused.
Isabelle’s father stared at Aleem.
Long.
Then he looked away.
His throat moved.
He cleared it roughly.
“Hmph,” he grunted.
But he didn’t reject it.
He didn’t correct it.
He didn’t say:
Don’t.
He simply stood.
Walked toward his room.
And as he passed, he said without looking back,
“Don’t call so early. Later you regret.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Aleem’s lips twitched slightly.
He bowed his head.
“Yes… Dad,” he said softly.
Isabelle’s chest cracked.
Her mother’s eyes filled.
Her father disappeared into his room.
Door closing gently.
Not slammed.
Gentle.
A sign.
Isabelle sat there shaking.
Aleem looked at her.
His eyes were soft.
But he didn’t touch her.
Not in her parents’ house.
He only whispered,
“Are you okay?”
Isabelle swallowed.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
But her voice broke.
Because she wasn’t just okay.
She was stunned.
Because for the first time, her father had allowed a word that implied:
If you marry her, you become family.
Not fully.
Not warmly.
But enough.
Enough to make Isabelle believe:
This wall wasn’t built to keep her out.
It was built to protect her.
And now, slowly–
plank by plank–
it was turning into a bridge.