Epilogue - All the Mercies
Epilogue — All the Mercies
The baby shower wasn’t called a baby shower.
Isabelle’s aunties refused.
“Chinese cannot shower shower,” one aunty declared, offended by the English.
So Isabelle’s mother called it something else.
Best Wishes Dinner.
Safe.
Neutral.
Very Chinese.
But the balloons were still there.
Pastel.
Soft.
The kind Crystal liked.
Crystal, naturally, acted like she owned the entire event.
She arrived early with a tote bag full of decorations, a marker pen, and a clipboard that said Project: Belle’s Belly.
Ivan stared at the clipboard.
“You’re not certified,” he said.
Crystal snapped,
“I am certified in LOVE.”
Ivan sighed.
“And chaos.”
Crystal beamed.
“Exactly.”
Isabelle watched them from her chair, one hand resting on the roundness of her belly.
Thirty-seven weeks.
Her body felt like it belonged to gravity now.
Everything was heavier.
Her ankles.
Her breath.
Her heart.
But tonight wasn’t heavy.
Tonight was warm.
Her mother fussed over the food table.
Her father stood near the drinks, pretending he wasn’t monitoring everything like a security guard.
Aleem’s parents arrived with containers of dates and a quiet, calm smile.
Relatives filled the living room.
Laughter.
Photos.
Aunties commenting on Isabelle’s face.
Uncles commenting on Aleem’s “good manners.”
ABIX orbiting like protective satellites.
And Isabelle, in the center, felt something she never expected to feel again after heartbreak:
safe.
It was the first time Isabelle’s two worlds were fully in the same space.
Not just in a photo.
Not just in a ceremony.
But in a home, with noise and food and teasing.
Her mother placed a small tray of pastries on the table and turned to Aleem’s mother.
“You eat,” she said.
Aleem’s mother smiled softly.
“You also,” she replied.
The words were simple.
But in them was a new kind of respect.
Two mothers who had started on opposite sides of a painful change—
now sharing food.
Isabelle’s father watched from the corner.
He didn’t join the softness.
He guarded it.
But Isabelle had learned:
her father’s love was often a shield, not a hug.
Crystal clapped loudly.
“Okay everyone!” she declared, standing in the middle of the room like she was hosting a wedding.
“We are going to do best wishes for Pregnant Belle!”
Aunties laughed.
Uncles groaned.
Ivan murmured,
“Scope creep.”
Crystal ignored him.
She shoved a pen into everyone’s hand.
“Write on the message board!” she ordered.
A board appeared.
WELCOME BABIES SIDDIQUE
Isabelle blinked.
“Babies?” she whispered.
Crystal paused.
“…Why?” she said slowly.
Isabelle pointed at the board.
Crystal stared.
Then she gasped.
“Oh,” she whispered, eyes widening.
Ivan looked up.
“What?”
Crystal pointed at Isabelle’s belly like it might confess.
“WHAT IF THERE’S TWO?!” she screamed.
Isabelle laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach.
Aleem rushed to her immediately.
“Slow,” he whispered.
Isabelle waved him off.
“I’m fine,” she laughed. “I’m fine.”
Her father’s gaze sharpened.
“Don’t laugh until you break,” he muttered.
Isabelle smiled.
“Okay, Pa.”
And just as she said it—
something warm slipped.
Not pain.
Not a sharp cramp.
Just… a sudden, unmistakable release.
Isabelle froze.
Her smile disappeared.
Her hand instinctively pressed against the curve of her belly.
Aleem’s eyes sharpened instantly.
“Belle?”
Isabelle swallowed.
“Um,” she whispered.
Crystal leaned forward.
“What?” she demanded.
Ivan’s brows lifted.
Isabelle inhaled.
“I think…” she whispered.
She looked at Aleem.
Her voice came out small.
“My water broke.”
For one second, the room held its breath.
Then all hell broke loose.
“AIYO!” her mother screamed.
“NOW?!” Crystal screamed.
“Where towel?!” an aunty yelled.
“Call taxi!” someone shouted.
“Hospital bag?!”
“IC?!”
Ivan, for once, was the calmest person in the room.
He stood.
“Okay,” he said flatly. “Protocol.”
Crystal whirled on him.
“PROTOCOL?!” she screeched.
Ivan ignored her.
He pointed.
“Aleem. Bag. Keys. Car. Go.”
Aleem looked like his soul had left his body.
He blinked.
Then he moved.
Scrambling.
Shaking.
Trying to be competent and failing.
Isabelle’s father stepped forward.
His voice was sharp.
“Stop running like headless chicken,” he snapped at Aleem.
Aleem froze.
Isabelle’s father grabbed Aleem’s wrist.
Firm.
Grounding.
He looked into Aleem’s eyes.
“Breathe,” he commanded.
Aleem’s chest heaved.
He inhaled.
Exhaled.
His father-in-law’s grip did what panic couldn’t.
Made him steady.
Isabelle watched through the noise.
Her father.
Holding Aleem.
Not as an enemy.
Not as a stranger.
As family.
Her father’s voice lowered.
“You drive safe,” he muttered. “You hear me? Safe.”
Aleem’s eyes burned.
“Yes, Dad,” he whispered.
The word landed.
The room quieted for half a beat.
Dad.
In front of everyone.
Not hidden.
Not awkward.
Just… true.
Isabelle’s father grunted.
“Hmph,” he said.
Then he added, rough,
“Bring my daughter. Bring my grandchildren.”
Aleem swallowed.
“I will,” he promised.
The hospital felt too bright.
Too sterile.
Too fast.
Isabelle was wheeled in.
Aleem walked beside her, pale.
Hands shaking.
Eyes locked on her face.
Isabelle squeezed his fingers.
“Aleem,” she whispered, breathy.
“I’m here,” he whispered back.
But he looked like he was about to break.
When they reached the waiting area outside the delivery suite, Aleem finally lost it.
He paced.
He muttered prayers.
He rubbed his face.
He kept whispering,
“Please… please…”
Isabelle’s father arrived.
Fast.
Not panicked.
Just urgent.
He saw Aleem’s state.
He didn’t mock.
He didn’t scold.
He stood beside him.
A solid presence.
Then he said, voice low,
“You want to be husband, you must be steady.”
Aleem’s breath hitched.
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
Isabelle’s father nodded.
“I know,” he muttered.
Then he did something Isabelle never imagined.
He patted Aleem’s shoulder.
Once.
Awkward.
But real.
Like a father teaching a son how to carry fear.
Isabelle’s father looked at him.
“If she scream at you, don’t take personally,” he muttered.
Aleem blinked.
Then he laughed—
a shaky, shocked laugh.
“Yes, Dad,” he whispered.
Isabelle’s father grunted.
“Good.”
Hours later, the crying came.
Not Isabelle’s.
The babies’.
Two sharp, furious cries.
One after the other.
Like two tiny souls announcing:
We’re here.
A nurse emerged.
Smiling.
“Congratulations,” she said. “Two healthy babies. One boy, one girl.”
Aleem’s knees almost buckled.
He covered his mouth.
His eyes flooded.
“Alhamdulillah,” he whispered.
Isabelle’s father exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months.
He muttered,
“Good.”
But his voice cracked.
When Aleem was finally allowed in, he stepped into the room like he was entering a sacred place.
Isabelle lay exhausted.
Hair damp.
Face pale.
Eyes half-lidded.
But she smiled.
A small, tired smile.
Aleem walked to her bed.
He didn’t look at the babies first.
He looked at her.
He leaned down.
He kissed her forehead.
Then her cheek.
Then her lips—
soft,
brief,
reverent.
His voice broke.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for… doing this. Thank you for making them.”
Isabelle laughed weakly.
“You make also,” she whispered.
Aleem choked.
“Still,” he whispered. “You carried. You endured. You… you’re incredible.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Aleem looked at the babies.
Two tiny bundles.
One sleeping.
One squinting.
His breath hitched.
He whispered,
“Ya Allah… thank you.”
Isabelle whispered too,
“Alhamdulillah.”
Then the families entered.
Isabelle’s mother cried immediately.
Big tears.
Joy tears.
She rushed to Isabelle and hugged her gently, careful of tubes and soreness.
“My baby…” she sobbed. “My brave baby…”
Isabelle cried.
Her father stood stiffly at first.
Then he stepped forward.
He looked down at Isabelle.
His eyes wet.
He cleared his throat.
Then he said, voice rough,
“Good job.”
Two words.
In Isabelle’s house, two words could be a poem.
Isabelle’s chest cracked.
“Thanks, Pa,” she whispered.
Her father’s jaw clenched.
He leaned down.
He hugged her.
Awkward.
Brief.
But full.
Not halfway.
Full.
Then he pulled back quickly like he was embarrassed by his own softness.
He looked at Aleem.
His voice was low.
“Now you two no more only husband-wife,” he muttered. “Now you are parents. Don’t be stupid.”
Aleem laughed through tears.
“Yes, Dad,” he whispered.
Aleem’s parents arrived next.
Aleem’s mother cried quietly.
She kissed Isabelle’s hand.
“Welcome to motherhood,” she whispered.
Aleem’s father shook Aleem’s shoulder firmly.
Pride.
Respect.
Aleem looked like he was still in shock.
Then ABIX arrived.
Crystal came in already crying.
Ivan followed with tissues.
Crystal saw the twins.
She made a sound that was not human.
“OH MY GOD,” she sobbed. “THEY ARE SO SMALL. I CANNOT.”
Ivan murmured,
“Volume control.”
Crystal ignored him.
She looked at Aleem.
Then at Isabelle.
Her voice broke.
“Aunty and uncle reporting for duty,” she declared dramatically.
Ivan nodded once.
“Uncle,” he said.
Not by blood.
But by everything else.
Isabelle laughed through tears.
Aleem’s eyes softened.
And in that room, with crying and laughter tangled together, Isabelle realized:
This was the full circle.
Not just love.
Not just religion.
Not just family conflict.
But all of it—
survived.
Years later, the twins were toddlers.
They were chaos in small bodies.
One boy.
One girl.
Both loud.
Both curious.
Both stubborn in ways that made Isabelle’s father secretly proud.
They were in preschool now—tiny backpacks, tiny shoes, tiny voices shouting “Bye Mama!” with careless confidence.
And when the gate clicked shut behind them each morning, the house fell into a quiet Isabelle used to fear.
Now it felt like rest.
Aleem worked from home at the dining table, laptop open, a mug of kopi beside him.
Isabelle curled on the couch with her head resting on his thighs, tracing absent patterns on his trousers.
Soft.
Domestic.
Safe.
Aleem reached down and combed his fingers through her hair.
Isabelle closed her eyes.
“Do you ever think about Hokkaido?” she murmured.
Aleem hummed.
“All the time,” he admitted.
Isabelle smiled.
“That café,” she whispered. “The confession. The panic.”
Aleem’s fingers paused.
He chuckled softly.
“You almost killed me,” he said.
Isabelle laughed.
“Sorry,” she teased.
Aleem sighed.
“You’re not sorry,” he murmured.
Isabelle tilted her head and looked up at him.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Tell me something.”
Aleem’s eyes softened.
“What?”
Isabelle hesitated, then asked gently,
“When did you start seeing me… like that? Romantically.”
Aleem went still.
His fingers kept moving, slower now, as if the answer needed care.
He didn’t speak immediately.
Not because he didn’t know.
Because he did.
And it mattered.
His voice dropped.
“I noticed you early,” he said.
Isabelle blinked.
“Early as in…?”
Aleem exhaled.
“Since the beginning,” he admitted quietly. “When ABIX first formed. When we first met. You were… you. Calm. honest. Kind, but never weak. You made sense to me.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“Then why you never—”
Aleem interrupted gently.
“Because you were taken,” he said. “And I respected that.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“And after I broke up?” she asked softly.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“Because you were bleeding,” he said. “And I refused to be the man who benefits from your pain. I didn’t want to take advantage. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to help you stand again—even if it meant I stayed only as a friend.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
“So you were surprised in Hokkaido,” she whispered.
Aleem laughed quietly.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Because I’d trained myself for years to stay in the friend lane. To keep my heart disciplined. I thought… this is my role. This is how I love her.”
Isabelle smiled.
“And then I ruined your discipline,” she whispered.
Aleem’s lips twitched.
“Yes,” he murmured. “You ruined it.”
Isabelle shifted, turning her face more toward him.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Then my turn.”
Aleem’s brows lifted.
“When did I start seeing you?” Isabelle whispered.
Aleem hummed, waiting.
Isabelle’s voice warmed with memory.
“When you didn’t leave,” she admitted. “When you stayed through my worst and didn’t ask for anything back. When you went the extra mile and still acted like it was normal. When you cared without making it transactional.”
Aleem’s eyes softened.
Isabelle continued,
“I didn’t fall for you because you were convenient. I fell because you were safe. Steady. And you made faith look… gentle.”
Aleem’s throat worked.
He looked away for a second.
Emotion—quiet, controlled.
Then Isabelle reached up and touched his cheek.
No grand gesture.
Just warmth.
Aleem leaned into her palm like he’d been waiting for permission his whole life.
“Thank you,” Isabelle whispered.
Aleem’s voice was low.
“No,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
Isabelle smiled.
“Alhamdulillah,” she murmured.
Aleem chuckled.
This time, he didn’t worry about volume.
“Alhamdulillah,” he echoed.
Outside, the afternoon sun softened the living room.
The house smelled faintly of detergent and leftover biscuits.
Ordinary.
Sacred.
A life built from small mercies.
From practiced sentences.
From patience.
From love that refused to take.
And from a friendship that became a marriage—
not by force,
not by accident,
but by two people choosing each other carefully.
Isabelle closed her eyes again.
Her head on Aleem’s thighs.
His fingers in her hair.
And somewhere in the quiet, she could almost hear their twins’ laughter—
a reminder,
a blessing,
a future.
All the mercies.