Two Lines
Chapter 50 – Two Lines
It started with two lines.
Not a miracle.
Not a dramatic sign.
Just two thin pink lines on a plastic stick–
appearing slowly,
quietly,
as if the universe was afraid to shock Isabelle too much.
Isabelle sat on the bathroom floor with her back against the cabinet.
The test in her hand.
Her breath held.
Her heart punching at her ribs.
Two lines.
She stared until her eyes blurred.
Then she laughed.
A soft, broken laugh.
The kind that sounded like relief.
The kind that sounded like fear.
The kind that sounded like:
Oh my God.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
And instinctively–
before she even called Aleem–
Isabelle whispered,
“Ya Allah…”
The words came out of her like a habit now.
Not forced.
Not performed.
Just hers.
She swallowed.
Then she stood.
Hands still trembling.
And opened the bathroom door.
Aleem was in the living room, scrolling through something on his phone.
Probably logistics.
Probably future.
He looked up when she walked out.
His eyes sharpened immediately.
Because Isabelle’s face was pale.
Because her hands were shaking.
Because she was holding something like it was fragile.
“Belle?” he asked quietly.
Isabelle didn’t speak.
She crossed the room.
She sat beside him.
Then she placed the test in his palm.
Aleem stared.
One line.
Two.
His breath stopped.
Isabelle watched his eyes move.
Watched his throat tighten.
Watched his shoulders go rigid.
Then he looked up at her.
His voice came out broken.
“Is this…?”
Isabelle nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Aleem’s eyes burned.
He stared at the test again like it might disappear.
Then he exhaled, shaky.
“Alhamdulillah,” he whispered.
Not quiet.
Not loud.
Just… stunned.
Isabelle laughed softly.
“You can say it loud now,” she whispered.
Aleem’s lips trembled.
He looked at her.
Then he asked the first thing he always asked when his love turned into anxiety.
“You okay?”
Isabelle nodded.
“I think so,” she whispered.
Aleem blinked.
Then, very slowly, he reached for her hand.
No drama.
Just a steady grip.
As if anchoring her to the present.
He whispered,
“We need to tell your parents.”
Isabelle’s stomach flipped.
Yes.
We need to.
But the sentence made fear rise.
Because her parents had survived the conversion.
They had shown up for the nikah.
They had been trying.
But a baby–
a baby would make everything more real.
More permanent.
More… impossible to ignore.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Will they be angry?” she whispered.
Aleem stared at her.
“No,” he said softly. “They will be scared. But not angry.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Aleem continued gently,
“And even if they are… we will be respectful. We will tell them properly.”
Proper.
Always.
Isabelle nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
They went to her parents’ house that weekend.
Not with a big plan.
Not with a grand setup.
Just… a bag of fruits.
A box of pastries.
And two people holding a secret that felt too bright for their hands.
Isabelle’s mother opened the door.
She looked surprised.
“You come?” she asked.
Isabelle smiled weakly.
“Yes, Ma,” she whispered.
Her father’s voice came from inside.
“Who?”
Isabelle’s mother answered,
“Belle.”
A pause.
Then her father’s mutter,
“Hmph.”
That was his greeting.
Aleem stepped in behind Isabelle.
He bowed slightly.
“Dad,” he greeted.
The word still felt new.
Still slightly dangerous.
But now it was allowed.
Her father glanced up.
He didn’t correct.
He just grunted.
“Sit.”
Isabelle’s mother brought drinks.
Isabelle’s father pretended to focus on the TV.
Normal.
Trying.
Isabelle sat on the sofa.
Her hands sweaty.
Aleem sat beside her, not touching too much.
Respect.
Isabelle swallowed.
Then she said softly,
“Pa. Ma. We have something to tell you.”
Her father muted the TV immediately.
His gaze sharpened.
Her mother’s hands tightened around her cup.
Isabelle’s heart slammed.
This was it.
Her father’s voice was low.
“What?”
Isabelle looked at her mother.
Then at her father.
Then she reached into her bag.
She pulled out an envelope.
Not a wedding invitation.
A clinic appointment slip.
She placed it on the coffee table.
Her father stared.
Her mother stared.
Her mother leaned forward.
She read.
Her brows furrowed.
Then her eyes widened.
“Obstetrics?” her mother whispered.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Silence.
A thick, stunned silence.
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
He stared at the slip.
Then he stared at Isabelle.
His voice was rough.
“You…”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Her mother gasped suddenly.
“No…” she whispered.
Isabelle nodded again.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m pregnant.”
Her mother’s face changed so fast it terrified Isabelle.
Shock.
Fear.
Then–
something else.
Something bright.
Something like the sun breaking through clouds.
Her mother’s lips trembled.
Then she burst.
Not crying.
Laughing.
A strange, disbelieving laugh.
“Pregnant?” her mother whispered, voice shaking. “Really?”
Isabelle nodded.
Her mother stood up so quickly her chair squeaked.
She covered her mouth.
Then she cried.
Big tears.
Not grief tears.
Joy tears.
“Oh my God,” her mother sobbed. “My baby is having a baby…”
Isabelle’s chest cracked.
Aleem’s eyes burned.
Her mother rushed forward and hugged Isabelle.
Hard.
Full.
No halfway.
Full.
Isabelle’s father didn’t move.
He sat frozen.
His face stiff.
His eyes locked on the appointment slip.
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
Then Isabelle’s mother turned to him, crying.
“Eh!” she scolded through tears. “You hear or not? We going to be grandparents!”
Her father blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Like his brain was catching up.
Then he muttered,
“Grandparents…”
He said the word like he didn’t trust it.
Isabelle’s mother hit his arm.
“Aiyo!” she cried. “Don’t sit like stone!”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
Then he stood abruptly.
Isabelle flinched.
But he didn’t shout.
He walked to Isabelle.
Slow.
Stiff.
As if his body didn’t know how to do this.
He looked at Isabelle.
His eyes were wet.
Barely.
But wet.
Then he cleared his throat roughly.
“How many weeks?” he muttered.
Isabelle blinked.
“Six,” she whispered.
Her father stared.
Then he looked at Aleem.
His gaze sharpened.
Aleem sat straighter immediately.
Her father’s voice was low.
“You take care,” he said.
Not a question.
A command.
Aleem bowed his head.
“Yes, Dad,” he said.
Her father’s throat moved.
Then he looked back at Isabelle.
He hesitated.
Then he reached out.
Awkward.
Slow.
And he placed his palm on the top of Isabelle’s head.
A blessing.
A Chinese blessing.
The kind her father rarely gave.
His palm was warm.
Heavy.
He muttered,
“Don’t do too much. Rest.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Yes, Pa,” she whispered.
Her father’s hand lingered.
Then he withdrew quickly, embarrassed.
He turned away.
Walked back to the sofa.
Sat down.
But this time, his posture was different.
Not fortress.
Not wall.
A man who had just been handed a new identity.
Grandfather.
After the shock, the house turned into noise.
Her mother immediately started asking questions.
“You eat already?”
“Cannot drink kopi!”
“Cannot carry heavy!”
“Need folic acid!”
Isabelle laughed.
Aleem smiled softly.
Her father muttered occasionally.
“Don’t eat raw.”
“Don’t go out too late.”
“Doctor say what?”
Isabelle blinked.
Her father.
Asking.
Caring.
Not through anger.
Through instructions.
Love.
In his language.
Then her father stood suddenly.
He walked to his room.
Came out with something.
A small red packet.
Not money.
A tiny gold pendant inside.
Isabelle’s mother gasped.
“Why you take out now?!” she cried.
Her father grunted.
“For baby,” he muttered.
Isabelle froze.
Her father placed it into Isabelle’s palm.
“For luck,” he muttered.
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
“Pa…”
Her father waved his hand.
“Don’t talk,” he muttered. “Keep.”
Isabelle clutched it.
Her mother cried harder.
Then she laughed.
“See?” she sobbed. “He happy.”
Her father snapped,
“I’m not happy,” he lied.
Isabelle laughed through tears.
Aleem lowered his head, eyes wet.
The room felt lighter than it had in months.
Because a baby did what speeches couldn’t.
It rearranged priorities.
It made grief step aside,
not disappear,
but soften.
That night, when Isabelle and Aleem left, her mother hugged Isabelle again at the door.
“Come often,” her mother whispered.
“I will,” Isabelle promised.
Her father stood behind.
Arms crossed.
Then he muttered,
“Next time bring scan photo.”
Isabelle laughed.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her father grunted.
Then he looked at Aleem.
He hesitated.
Then he muttered,
“Drive careful.”
Aleem bowed.
“Yes, Dad.”
Her father nodded once.
Then he said the sentence Isabelle never thought she would hear.
“Take care of… my two,” he muttered.
Two.
Not one.
Two.
Isabelle’s chest cracked.
Aleem’s voice came out soft.
“I will,” he promised.
In the car, Isabelle stared out the window.
Singapore lights sliding by.
Her hand clenched around the tiny gold pendant.
Aleem drove quietly.
Then he said softly,
“You okay?”
Isabelle laughed.
“I’m… overwhelmed,” she admitted.
Aleem nodded.
“Me too,” he whispered.
Isabelle turned to him.
She looked at the man who had once been only her best friend.
The man who had held her grief without claiming her.
The man who had asked permission for every step.
Now he was her husband.
Now he was going to be a father.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She whispered,
“We made it.”
Aleem’s eyes softened.
He nodded.
“We did,” he whispered.
Isabelle looked down at her hand.
Then she whispered,
“Ya Allah… thank you.”
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… steady.
And as the car moved through the night, Isabelle realized:
The love story wasn’t only Aleem and Isabelle.
It was families learning how to keep loving through change.
It was grief becoming gentler.
It was fear turning into excitement.
It was a father who once guarded the gate,
now asking for a scan photo.
And it was two lines–
simple,
quiet,
impossible–
opening a new chapter that didn’t need secrecy.
Because this time,
everyone was already holding the same hope.
Together.