The Meeting After the Word

Chapter 44 – The Meeting After the Word

After Aleem said it–

Dad

–Isabelle couldn’t stop hearing it.

Not because it was romantic.

Because it was dangerous.

A word like that wasn’t just vocabulary.

It was a claim.

A bridge.

A promise.

And Isabelle’s father, who had spent months guarding his family like a fortress, had allowed the gate to open–

even if only for a second.

Isabelle lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling.

She didn’t text Aleem.

Not immediately.

Because part of her was afraid the magic would disappear if she said it too loudly.

Like a fragile blessing.

Like a shy animal.

So she kept it in her chest and listened to the sounds of her home.

Her mother moving in the kitchen.

Her father’s footsteps in his room.

Normal.

Trying.

And in the middle of that normal, Isabelle realized:

The next step wasn’t romance.

The next step was responsibility.

If he said “Dad,” then the families had to meet again.

Not as strangers at one table.

But as people preparing for something real.

It happened faster than Isabelle expected.

Two days later, her father called her into the living room.

Isabelle’s stomach tightened.

She sat carefully.

Her father stared at the TV without watching.

Then he said,

“Next week. Bring Aleem parents again.”

Isabelle blinked.

Again.

Her father continued, voice flat.

“This time talk about… wedding things.”

Isabelle’s chest tightened.

Wedding things.

Her father said it like he was discussing insurance.

But Isabelle could hear the surrender beneath it.

Surrender to reality.

Her mother, standing near the kitchen, went still.

Her lips trembled.

Then she whispered,

“So fast…”

Her father snapped,

“Not fast. Already months.”

He didn’t look at her.

He continued,

“We keep dragging, everyone suffer. Better we talk properly. We decide what can, what cannot.”

What can.

What cannot.

Boundaries.

Control.

Her father’s way of surviving.

Isabelle swallowed.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Her father muttered,

“Tell Aleem. Tell him don’t bring whole kampung.”

Isabelle almost laughed.

Almost.

Then she texted Aleem.

Isabelle: My dad wants your parents to come again next week. This time to talk about wedding things. He said: don’t bring whole kampung.

Aleem: 💀 okay. We bring only parents. Maybe one elder if needed. I’ll ask him first. Proper.

Proper.

Always.

The second family meeting was at Isabelle’s home.

Her father insisted.

“Restaurant everyone listen,” he muttered.

He wanted home field.

Control.

Familiar walls.

Isabelle cleaned the table until it was spotless.

Her mother cooked light food.

Not heavy.

Not celebratory.

Just… something for guests.

Her father wore a collared shirt again.

Isabelle realized he had a “serious talk” shirt.

She felt a strange tenderness for that.

Even his clothing was trying.

Aleem arrived first again.

He didn’t step inside until invited.

He greeted.

Then his parents arrived.

This time, no sibling.

Only Aleem’s father and mother.

And an older man Isabelle hadn’t met before–

Aleem’s uncle.

A respected elder.

Not loud.

Not intimidating.

But clearly someone families brought when they needed “proper” support.

Isabelle’s father narrowed his eyes.

“Who is this?” he asked.

Aleem’s father answered calmly.

“My brother,” he said. “He is here only to advise if needed. If you prefer, he can wait outside.”

Isabelle’s father stared.

Then he grunted.

“Sit,” he said.

Permission.

The elder sat.

Quiet.

Not dominating.

Isabelle exhaled.

This was diplomacy.

Not romance.

Two families learning how to coexist.

They started with tea.

Then silence.

Then Isabelle’s father spoke.

He didn’t do warm greetings.

He did agenda.

“We talk about wedding,” he said.

Aleem’s father nodded.

“Yes,” he agreed.

Isabelle’s father’s eyes narrowed.

“How you do?” he asked. “Malay wedding? Muslim wedding? Chinese side what?”

Aleem’s mother leaned forward gently.

“We can do simple nikah,” she said. “Small ceremony. Then later, if you want, we do Chinese dinner.”

Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.

“Chinese dinner is not ‘if you want’,” he muttered.

Isabelle’s cheeks warmed.

Aleem’s mother blinked.

Then she smiled softly.

“Okay,” she said. “Then we do both.”

Her father’s gaze softened a fraction.

Both.

That mattered.

Isabelle’s mother spoke quietly.

“I don’t want… my family feel like we lost her,” she whispered.

Aleem’s mother’s eyes filled.

“I understand,” she said. “We don’t want you to lose her. We want you to gain us too.”

Isabelle’s father grunted.

“Gain,” he muttered. “Not sure.”

Aleem’s father didn’t laugh.

He nodded.

“Slowly,” he said.

Isabelle’s father exhaled.

Then he asked,

“Mahar,” he said. “How much?”

Aleem sat straight.

Not speaking over.

But ready.

Aleem’s father looked at Aleem.

Aleem inhaled.

“I will discuss with Belle,” he said. “But I want it meaningful. Not show-off. Not stingy.”

Isabelle swallowed a smile.

Not stingy.

Don’t act rich.

Aleem remembered.

Isabelle’s father nodded once.

“Good,” he muttered.

Then he asked the next thing.

“Wali,” he said.

The room tightened.

Isabelle’s father’s voice was rough.

“I will be wali,” he said.

Aleem’s mother’s eyes widened.

Aleem’s father’s gaze softened.

The elder uncle nodded respectfully.

“Alhamdulillah,” Aleem’s father murmured.

Isabelle’s father raised his hand sharply.

“Don’t alham too loud,” he snapped.

Isabelle flinched.

Aleem’s father blinked.

Then he nodded.

“Sorry,” he said softly.

Isabelle’s chest tightened.

Her father was still grieving.

But he was still offering.

Wali.

That was huge.

Her mother’s eyes filled.

Then Isabelle’s father looked at Aleem.

His gaze was sharp.

“You,” he said.

Aleem sat straighter.

“Yes, uncle.”

Isabelle’s father’s voice was low.

“You said ‘Dad’ last time,” he muttered.

Isabelle’s heart slammed.

Aleem blinked.

“Yes,” he admitted.

Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.

“You can say after marriage,” he said. “Not now.”

Aleem nodded.

“Yes, uncle–”

Her father snapped.

“Don’t ‘uncle’ already,” he muttered.

Isabelle froze.

Aleem froze.

The room went silent.

Isabelle’s mother inhaled sharply.

Aleem’s father’s eyes widened.

Isabelle’s father’s cheeks reddened slightly.

He looked annoyed at himself.

Then he added quickly,

“After marriage you call… whatever. Now still uncle.”

Isabelle’s chest tightened.

He had caught himself.

But the slip mattered.

Don’t uncle already.

A doorway.

Accidental.

But real.

The conversation continued.

Dates.

Tentative.

Not decided.

But imagined.

Venue.

Small nikah.

Dinner later.

How to handle extended family.

How to handle food.

How to handle speeches.

Isabelle’s father said firmly,

“No one say she convert for boy. If anyone say, I will scold.”

Aleem’s father nodded.

“Thank you,” he said.

Isabelle’s father muttered,

“Don’t thank. Just do right.”

Then Isabelle’s mother asked softly,

“When nikah… can we… can we attend?”

Isabelle’s breath caught.

Attend.

As Christian parents.

In a Muslim ceremony.

Her mother’s voice trembled.

“I don’t want to stand outside,” she whispered. “I want to see my daughter.”

Aleem’s mother’s eyes filled.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Of course you attend. You are her parents.”

Isabelle’s mother’s tears spilled.

Her father stared at his hands.

Then he muttered,

“We attend,” he said. “Because we are parents.”

Isabelle’s throat tightened.

That sentence held everything.

Grief.

Love.

Reluctant loyalty.

After two hours, the meeting ended.

Not with hugs.

Not with laughter.

But with something more valuable.

Agreement.

A plan.

A shared understanding that both families would show up.

Aleem’s parents stood.

They thanked politely.

The elder uncle bowed.

“Thank you for allowing this,” he said.

Isabelle’s father nodded once.

Aleem’s mother held Isabelle’s mother’s hand briefly.

Soft.

Warm.

Isabelle’s mother didn’t pull away.

Not fully.

But she didn’t hold tight either.

Halfway.

Trying.

At the door, Isabelle’s father suddenly called Aleem.

“Aleem,” he said.

Aleem turned.

“Yes, uncle.”

Isabelle’s father’s voice was low.

“You take care of my daughter,” he said.

Aleem’s throat moved.

He bowed his head.

“I will,” he said.

Her father nodded.

Then he muttered, almost too quiet,

“And don’t make her cry.”

Isabelle’s chest tightened.

Aleem’s voice softened.

“Yes,” he said.

When the door closed, Isabelle leaned against it.

She exhaled like her lungs had been held hostage.

Her mother sat down immediately.

Exhausted.

Her father remained standing.

He stared at the table.

At the tea cups.

At the empty seats.

Then he said quietly,

“Okay. This one… proper.”

Isabelle’s throat tightened.

Proper.

In her father’s mouth, it meant:

I still hurt. But I see you trying. And I will try too.

Isabelle nodded.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Her father looked at her.

His eyes were tired.

Then he said the strangest thing.

“After marriage,” he muttered, “you still come home and eat.”

Isabelle’s chest cracked.

“I will,” she whispered.

Her father nodded once.

Then he walked away.

Not dramatic.

Just… human.

And Isabelle sat there, stunned.

Because the meeting after the word–

after Dad

–had not taken the word back.

It had turned it into an agenda.

A plan.

A future.

Not romantic.

Not easy.

But real.

And for Isabelle, that was the most sacred kind of love.