His House, Her Shoes
The first time Jiawen met Faris’ mother, it wasn’t the mother she feared.
It was the doorway.
It was the quiet line between inside and outside–between the world where she could joke her way out of discomfort and the world where jokes became proof of disrespect. It was the threshold of a Malay Muslim household in Singapore where everything had a rhythm: greetings, shoes, where you stood, where you sat, how long you lingered.
It was the kind of space that didn’t shout rules.
It simply expected you to know them.
Faris had warned her.
Not with drama.
Not with the kind of anxious speeches people gave when they didn’t trust the other person to handle reality.
Just with facts.
“My mother will be cautious,” he’d said, voice steady on the drive back from Penang. “She won’t be rude. But she’ll ask questions. Quietly.”
Jiawen had stared out the window at the highway lights sliding past like slow comets.
“Quietly is scarier,” she’d replied.
Faris’ mouth had twitched.
“I know,” he’d said.
“Will she… hate me?”
Faris had glanced at her once, then back to the road.
“No,” he’d said. “She doesn’t hate people. She worries.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
Jiawen had sighed and leaned her head back against the seat.
Then, after a long minute, she’d muttered, “Okay. Door deal.”
Faris had nodded.
Door deal.
He would lead.
She would not disappear.
They would meet halfway.
Now, standing outside his mother’s front door, Jiawen felt those words sit in her chest like a small, stubborn stone.
The corridor of the HDB flat was quiet, the late afternoon light angled and soft. Somewhere down the row, someone’s TV played a variety show too loudly, laughter spilling through metal gates. A neighbour’s cooking drifted out–fried shallots and something sweet.
Faris stood beside her, keys in hand.
He looked calm.
But Jiawen had learned his calm.
It was a controlled calm.
The kind that meant his mind was moving a little too fast under the surface.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Jiawen’s mouth twitched. “No. But yes.”
Faris nodded as if that made perfect sense.
He lifted his hand slightly.
Not to touch her.
Just to hover, asking permission without words.
Jiawen glanced at his hand.
Then she slid her fingers into his palm for half a second–brief, grounding.
Faris’ fingers closed around hers once.
Then he released.
They weren’t here to perform.
They were here to be proper.
Faris took a breath, then unlocked the door.
The hinge creaked softly.
He pushed it open.
The smell hit Jiawen first.
Not food, yet.
The smell of home.
Fabric, detergent, a faint trace of floral air freshener, and underneath it, something warm that made her think of evenings where people sat together even when they didn’t talk much.
“Assalamualaikum,” Faris called, voice clear.
A reply came from inside, immediate.
“Waalaikumsalam.”
Then footsteps.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Measured.
Faris’ mother appeared in the living room doorway.
She was smaller than Jiawen expected, wearing a simple baju kurung with muted colours. Her hair was covered, her face composed. There was no dramatic expression–no wide smile, no frown.
Just a look.
A quiet assessment.
Her eyes moved from Faris to Jiawen.
Jiawen felt the impulse to smile too brightly, to soften the air with humour.
She swallowed it.
Instead, she bowed her head slightly.
“Hello, Auntie,” she said, voice gentle.
Faris’ mother’s gaze lingered on her.
Then she nodded.
“Hello,” she replied in English, clear and careful. “Come in.”
Jiawen stepped inside.
Her instinct was to remove her shoes immediately.
She did.
She placed them neatly to the side, aligning them with Faris’ shoes as if order could calm her heart.
Faris’ mother’s eyes flicked down.
Noted.
Jiawen straightened.
Faris stepped in behind her, closing the door.
His mother looked at him.
“Late,” she said.
Faris blinked. “It’s five.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Five is late.”
Jiawen’s mouth twitched.
Faris’ ears warmed.
He looked like he wanted to argue, then stopped.
“Yes, Ma,” he said.
Jiawen’s eyes widened.
He didn’t call her that often in office stories.
Hearing Ma made the household suddenly feel more real.
Faris’ mother turned her gaze to Jiawen again.
“You came back from Malaysia?” she asked.
“Yes, Auntie,” Jiawen replied.
Faris’ mother nodded. “Penang?”
Jiawen blinked, surprised she knew.
“Yes,” Jiawen said.
Faris’ mother’s eyes flicked to Faris.
“You went to Penang,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
Faris nodded. “Yes.”
His mother’s mouth tightened slightly.
Not disapproval.
Calculation.
Then she stepped aside.
“Come,” she said. “Sit.”
They moved into the living room.
It was tidy in the way lived-in homes were tidy–neat cushions, a coffee table with coasters, framed photos on the shelf. Jiawen’s eyes caught one: Faris in graduation robes, younger, smiling stiffly as if someone had forced the smile. Another: a family photo with his parents and a younger sibling she hadn’t met.
Faris’ mother gestured toward the sofa.
Jiawen sat carefully.
Faris sat beside her, not too close, not too far.
His mother sat opposite, hands folded on her lap.
The distance felt deliberate.
Not hostile.
Structured.
Like HR had designed the living room.
Jiawen’s mind made the comparison and almost laughed.
She stopped herself.
This wasn’t HR.
This was a mother.
She was not here to punish.
She was here to protect.
Faris’ mother looked at Jiawen.
“What is your full name?” she asked.
Jiawen inhaled.
“Chong Jiawen,” she replied.
His mother nodded slowly.
“Malaysian,” she said.
“Yes, Auntie.”
“From Penang,” his mother continued.
“Yes.”
Faris’ mother’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Chinese,” she said.
Jiawen nodded. “Yes, Auntie.”
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was filled with meaning.
Faris’ mother leaned back slightly.
“You are Buddhist,” she said.
Jiawen’s chest tightened.
She glanced at Faris.
He kept his face neutral, but his posture had shifted subtly toward her.
A silent alignment.
“Yes, Auntie,” Jiawen replied.
His mother nodded once.
Then she asked, softly, “You understand what you are doing?”
The question landed gently.
But it still landed.
Jiawen swallowed.
“Yes, Auntie,” she said carefully.
Faris’ mother watched her.
“What do you understand?” she asked.
Jiawen’s fingers curled on her lap.
She felt the urge to answer like a presentation.
She resisted.
She chose honesty.
“I understand Faris is Muslim,” she said, voice steady. “I understand his family is Muslim. I respect that. I’m not here to… challenge it.”
Faris’ mother’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“And you?” she asked. “Your family?”
Jiawen inhaled.
“My family is Buddhist,” she said. “But they are respectful. They don’t… force. They want to be involved. They don’t want me to be isolated.”
Faris’ mother’s gaze sharpened at the word.
Isolated.
She didn’t react outwardly.
But Jiawen saw it.
Faris saw it too.
He spoke, calm.
“Ma,” he said, “we talked about this.”
His mother’s eyes flicked to him.
“Talked,” she echoed.
Faris kept his voice steady. “We won’t isolate her. And she won’t isolate me. We involve family.”
His mother watched him for a long moment.
Then she turned back to Jiawen.
“What do you do for work?” she asked.
Jiawen blinked, grateful for the shift.
“I’m in client implementation,” Jiawen said. “At Meridian Harbor Systems. Same company as Faris.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed.
“Same company,” she repeated.
Jiawen nodded. “Yes.”
“And he is senior,” his mother said.
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed.
“Yes, Auntie,” she replied carefully.
Faris’ mother’s gaze moved between them.
“You work together?” she asked.
Faris answered this time.
“We have safeguards,” he said. “HR knows. We’re not in the same appraisal chain. We keep boundaries.”
His mother’s mouth tightened slightly.
“People talk,” she said.
Faris nodded. “Yes.”
His mother’s eyes held his.
“And you still choose?” she asked.
Faris didn’t flinch.
“Yes, Ma,” he said.
The word sat heavy.
Choose.
Faris’ mother looked at Jiawen again.
“You are younger,” she said.
Jiawen nodded.
“You are… still learning,” his mother continued.
Jiawen’s jaw tightened.
Not because the words were cruel.
Because they were true.
She felt Faris’ presence beside her–steady, quiet.
Door deal.
She didn’t disappear.
She spoke.
“Yes, Auntie,” Jiawen said, voice calm. “I’m still learning. But I’m not a child. I can decide.”
Faris’ mother blinked.
The first crack in her composure.
Not anger.
Surprise.
Then she nodded slowly.
“Okay,” she said.
It wasn’t approval.
But it wasn’t dismissal.
It was acknowledgment.
Jiawen exhaled, slow.
Faris’ mother stood.
“I make tea,” she announced.
“I can help,” Jiawen blurted.
Faris’ mother paused.
Her eyes flicked to Jiawen.
Then she said, “No need.”
Jiawen froze.
Heat rose to her cheeks.
Her instinct was to insist.
She stopped.
Door deal.
Don’t bulldoze.
Faris’ mother walked into the kitchen.
The sound of kettle, cups, small movements.
Jiawen sat on the sofa feeling like she had just survived a steering committee.
Faris turned slightly toward her.
“You okay?” he murmured.
Jiawen exhaled. “Your mother is… terrifying.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “She’s not terrifying.”
“She’s calm,” Jiawen whispered. “Calm people are terrifying.”
Faris’s lips pressed together, trying not to laugh.
Jiawen glared at him. “Don’t laugh.”
Faris cleared his throat. “I’m not laughing.”
Jiawen leaned closer, voice lower. “What is she thinking?”
Faris looked at her.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said softly, “She’s thinking about your future. And mine.”
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
Faris added, quieter, “Just be you. Respectful you.”
Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “I have different versions?”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”
Jiawen made a face. “Rude.”
Faris’s eyes warmed. “Accurate.”
Jiawen huffed, then her expression softened.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Door deal.”
Faris nodded.
Door deal.
The kettle clicked off.
Faris’ mother returned carrying a tray.
Tea.
Dates.
A plate of kuih.
She placed it on the coffee table with precise movements.
“Eat,” she said.
Faris reached automatically for a date.
Jiawen hesitated.
Faris’ mother watched her.
“It’s okay,” his mother said, reading her hesitation. “Halal.”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed again.
“Thank you, Auntie,” she said, and took one.
The date was sweet, sticky.
Jiawen chewed slowly.
Faris’ mother sat back down.
The tea steamed.
For a moment, the room held a careful quiet.
Then the front door opened.
A voice boomed.
“Assalamualaikum!”
Faris stood instinctively.
“Waalaikumsalam,” his mother replied.
A man stepped in.
Faris’ father.
He was taller than his mother, with a calm face and a tiredness around the eyes that suggested long working days. He removed his shoes and walked into the living room.
When he saw Jiawen, he paused.
His gaze moved from her to Faris.
Then he smiled–small, polite.
“Hello,” he said.
Jiawen stood quickly.
“Hello, Uncle,” she replied.
Faris’ father nodded. “You are Jiawen.”
Jiawen blinked. “Yes, Uncle.”
Faris’ father sat down, placing his phone and wallet on the side table.
He looked at Faris.
“You went Penang,” he said.
Faris nodded. “Yes.”
Faris’ father’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
Then he looked at Jiawen.
“Penang is nice,” he said.
Jiawen’s mouth twitched. “Yes, Uncle. Very nice. Very hot.”
Faris’ father laughed softly.
Faris’ mother watched the exchange.
Jiawen felt the gaze.
Like a hand on the back of her neck.
Faris’ father asked, gently, “You are settling in Singapore okay?”
Jiawen nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”
“You working?”
“Yes.”
“At Faris’ company?”
Jiawen glanced at Faris.
“Yes, Uncle.”
Faris’ father nodded slowly.
“Work hard,” he said, as if this was the only advice that mattered.
Jiawen smiled. “Yes, Uncle.”
Faris’ mother finally spoke.
“Your parents know about Faris?” she asked.
Jiawen inhaled.
“Yes, Auntie,” she said. “They know. Faris met them.”
Faris’ mother’s eyes sharpened.
“Met,” she echoed.
Jiawen nodded. “Yes. In Penang.”
Faris’ mother’s mouth tightened slightly.
Faris spoke quietly.
“Ma,” he said, “they’re respectful. They asked questions, but they were respectful.”
His mother’s gaze flicked to him.
“Questions,” she repeated.
Faris nodded. “Yes.”
His mother turned to Jiawen.
“What kind of questions?” she asked.
Jiawen swallowed.
Here was the line again.
She chose honesty.
“They asked about religion,” she said softly. “About future. About family. About whether Faris will isolate me.”
Faris’ mother’s eyes narrowed.
“And what did you say?” she asked.
Jiawen’s fingers tightened around her teacup.
“I said we respect each other,” she replied. “I said I’m learning. I said I won’t be forced. And Faris said the same.”
Faris’ mother stared at her for a moment.
Then she asked, quietly, “Do you understand what Islam asks of a marriage?”
Jiawen’s chest tightened.
Faris’ father looked down at his tea, letting his wife lead.
Faris’ mother’s gaze held Jiawen’s.
Jiawen didn’t rush.
“I understand some things,” she said. “Halal. Prayer. Ramadan. Respect. I’m still learning.”
Faris’ mother’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“And conversion?” she asked, too direct to pretend it was casual.
Jiawen’s heartbeat thudded.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Faris’ fingers moved slightly on the sofa cushion, not touching her, but close.
Jiawen looked at Faris’ mother.
“I’m Buddhist,” she said carefully. “I won’t make promises I don’t understand. If I ever learn Islam, it must be because I want to understand. Not because I’m pressured.”
Faris’ mother’s mouth tightened.
“It is not pressure,” she said softly.
Jiawen held her gaze.
“I know, Auntie,” she replied. “But it can feel like pressure if it becomes a condition.”
Faris inhaled quietly.
His mother’s eyes flicked to him.
Then back to Jiawen.
There was a long silence.
Jiawen felt sweat gather at the back of her neck.
She resisted the urge to fill it with humour.
This silence was doing work.
Then Faris’ mother spoke again.
“You are brave,” she said, not quite a compliment, not quite an observation.
Jiawen blinked.
Faris’ father looked up, eyebrows raised slightly.
Faris’ mother continued, “To come into this house and say that to me.”
Jiawen swallowed.
“I’m not trying to be disrespectful,” she said softly.
Faris’ mother nodded once.
“I know,” she replied.
Another pause.
Then Faris’ mother asked, “Why do you want Faris?”
The bluntness startled Jiawen.
Faris’ ears warmed.
Faris’ father’s mouth twitched, amused.
Jiawen blinked, then let out a breath.
She answered with the only truth that didn’t sound like a performance.
“Because he’s steady,” Jiawen said quietly. “Because he respects me. Because he doesn’t play games. Because when I’m scared, he doesn’t make me smaller. He makes space for me.”
Faris’ mother stared at her.
Faris felt his throat tighten.
Jiawen continued, voice soft but firm, “And because I… choose him. Not because he’s convenient. Not because he’s senior. Because I want him.”
The words were simple.
But the honesty made the room feel warmer.
Faris’ father cleared his throat.
Faris’ mother’s gaze softened–just slightly.
Then she said, “Faris is stubborn.”
Jiawen blinked.
Faris frowned. “Ma.”
His mother ignored him. “He thinks too much. He plans too much. He will stress you.”
Jiawen’s mouth twitched despite herself.
Faris looked betrayed.
Jiawen glanced at him and whispered, “She knows you.”
Faris muttered, “Obviously.”
His mother turned to Jiawen.
“You can handle?” she asked.
Jiawen smiled faintly. “I can handle. I’m also stubborn.”
Faris’ father laughed softly.
Faris’ mother’s mouth twitched.
The smallest hint of humour.
Then, like the universe couldn’t resist escalating, the doorbell rang.
Faris froze.
His mother’s eyes narrowed.
Faris’ father sighed. “Your sister.”
Faris blinked. “What?”
His mother stood. “She said she coming. I didn’t tell you because you will panic.”
Faris stared. “Ma.”
His mother walked to the door.
Jiawen’s eyes widened.
“Your sister?” she whispered.
Faris exhaled. “Yes.”
“You never told me you have sister.”
“I did,” Faris whispered back. “Once.”
“I thought you were lying,” Jiawen hissed.
Faris stared. “Why would I lie about having a sister?”
Jiawen’s mouth opened.
She closed it.
Fair point.
The door opened.
A woman stepped in.
She looked like Faris in the eyes–sharp, intelligent–but her smile was brighter, more expressive.
“Assalamualaikum!” she announced.
“Waalaikumsalam,” everyone replied.
She removed her shoes quickly and walked into the living room.
Then she saw Jiawen.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh,” she said, delighted. “You’re Jiawen.”
Jiawen stood immediately.
“Yes,” she said, voice polite.
Faris’ sister grinned and hugged Jiawen without warning.
Jiawen froze mid-hug.
Faris froze too.
His mother watched, expression unreadable.
Faris’ sister pulled back.
“Sorry,” she said, still smiling. “I’m… like that. I’m Farah.”
Jiawen blinked. “Nice to meet you, Farah.”
Farah’s eyes glittered. “Wah, pretty.”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed.
Faris’ ears warmed too.
Farah turned to Faris, eyebrows raised.
“You never show picture properly,” she accused.
Faris stared. “What?”
Farah waved a hand. “Never mind. I knew she was cute.”
Jiawen choked on a laugh.
Faris’ mother cleared her throat.
Farah immediately sat properly.
“Ma,” she said sweetly, “don’t be like that. I’m just happy.”
Faris’ mother’s eyes narrowed. “Happy later. First, tea.”
Farah obediently took a cup.
Then she leaned toward Jiawen.
“So,” Farah whispered loudly, “you really went Penang with him?”
Jiawen blinked.
Faris’ mother’s eyes flicked.
Farah coughed, pretending she hadn’t said it.
Jiawen smiled politely. “Yes.”
Farah’s grin widened. “Wah. Serious.”
Faris pinched the bridge of his nose.
Jiawen’s eyes flicked to him.
Her gaze said, your family is chaotic too.
Faris’ gaze said back, yes. Surprise.
Farah continued, undeterred.
“You know,” she said to Jiawen, “Faris is very boring one. But he is good.”
Faris stared. “Farah.”
Farah smiled sweetly. “What? It’s true.”
Jiawen’s mouth twitched.
Faris’ mother watched Farah.
Then she turned to Jiawen.
“Do you eat?” she asked.
Jiawen blinked. “Yes, Auntie.”
Faris’ mother nodded. “Stay for dinner.”
Jiawen’s heart thudded.
Dinner.
This wasn’t just tea.
Dinner meant time.
More questions.
More opportunities to fail.
Jiawen glanced at Faris.
He gave a small nod.
Door deal.
Jiawen smiled gently. “Okay, Auntie. Thank you.”
Faris’ mother stood.
She moved toward the kitchen.
Then she paused.
She looked at Jiawen.
“Can you help?” she asked.
Jiawen blinked.
Her chest warmed.
A test.
An invitation.
A seat at the table, not just in the living room.
“Yes, Auntie,” Jiawen said quickly.
Faris stood too. “I can help.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. “You? You will disturb.”
Faris blinked. “Ma.”
Farah snickered.
Jiawen coughed to hide her laugh.
Faris’ mother walked into the kitchen.
Jiawen followed.
The kitchen was small, efficient.
A Malay kitchen in an HDB flat–spices, containers, a rice cooker, an air fryer, neat rows of jars. The smell of onions and garlic already lingered, as if the household’s default state was preparing to feed someone.
Faris’ mother washed her hands, then pointed at a cutting board.
“You cut,” she said to Jiawen.
“What?” Jiawen asked.
“Vegetables,” his mother replied, tone firm.
Jiawen nodded quickly.
She rolled up her sleeves.
She picked up the knife.
Faris’ mother watched her for a moment.
Then she turned back to the sink.
They worked in silence.
Not awkward silence.
Working silence.
The kind of silence that existed in kitchens because mouths were busy and hands were doing something useful.
Jiawen cut carrots, then long beans, then onions.
Her eyes watered.
She tried not to blink too dramatically.
Faris’ mother glanced at her.
“Onion strong?” she asked.
Jiawen sniffed. “Yes, Auntie.”
His mother nodded and handed her a small pair of goggles.
Jiawen froze.
“Goggles?” she repeated.
His mother shrugged. “For onion. I don’t like cry.”
Jiawen stared at the goggles.
Then she laughed softly.
She put them on.
She looked ridiculous.
Faris’ mother’s mouth twitched.
The smallest crack.
Jiawen continued cutting, now safe behind plastic lenses.
Faris’ mother stirred something in a pot.
The smell rose–coconut milk, spice.
Jiawen’s stomach growled.
She tried to pretend it didn’t.
Faris’ mother glanced at her.
“Hungry,” she said, not a question.
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed. “A bit.”
His mother nodded. “Good. Eat later.”
Jiawen swallowed.
Then, after a long moment, Faris’ mother spoke again.
“You like Faris,” she said.
Jiawen nearly cut her finger.
She froze, knife mid-air.
“Yes, Auntie,” she replied carefully.
Faris’ mother’s voice remained calm.
“But you know,” she continued, “in our religion, marriage is not only two people. It is two families.”
Jiawen inhaled.
“Yes, Auntie,” she said.
Faris’ mother’s eyes remained on the pot.
“You are Buddhist,” she said again.
Jiawen’s throat moved. “Yes.”
His mother’s voice softened slightly.
“I don’t hate you,” she said.
Jiawen’s breath caught.
Faris’ mother continued, “But I worry. Because I don’t want Faris to suffer. And I don’t want you to suffer.”
Jiawen’s eyes warmed unexpectedly.
She set the knife down carefully.
“Auntie,” she said softly, “I don’t want anyone to suffer. That’s why I won’t pretend. I won’t promise conversion like it’s… paperwork. But I will respect. I will learn. I will not disrespect your faith.”
Faris’ mother stirred, quiet.
Jiawen held her breath.
Then his mother said, still not looking at her, “Learning is good.”
Jiawen exhaled slowly.
His mother added, “But people talk. Family talk. They will ask. They will judge.”
Jiawen nodded. “My family also like that.”
Faris’ mother’s mouth twitched slightly.
Then she said, “You will be strong?”
Jiawen swallowed.
She thought of Penang aunties.
Of temple questions.
Of Junhao’s messages.
Of HR and office optics.
She thought of Faris’ steadiness.
Of his refusal to let her be half-chosen.
“Yes, Auntie,” Jiawen said quietly. “I will be strong. But… I don’t want to be strong alone.”
Faris’ mother finally turned and looked at her.
Her gaze was sharp.
Not unkind.
But testing.
Jiawen met it.
Then Faris’ mother nodded once.
“Good,” she said.
She turned back to the stove.
Jiawen’s chest loosened.
Not fully.
But enough.
Behind Jiawen, Farah appeared at the kitchen doorway like a mischievous spirit.
“Wah,” Farah whispered, eyes glittering. “So serious. I thought I walked into counselling session.”
Jiawen startled.
Faris’ mother’s eyes narrowed. “Farah.”
Farah raised both hands. “Okay, okay. I go.”
Then she leaned toward Jiawen and whispered loudly, “My mother likes you. She only talk serious when she likes.”
Faris’ mother threw a towel at Farah.
Farah squealed and ran.
Jiawen covered her mouth to hide her laugh.
Faris’ mother’s mouth twitched again.
She didn’t fully smile.
But she didn’t look displeased either.
Dinner became a rhythm.
Jiawen helped set the table.
Faris hovered near the kitchen, trying to help and being shooed away.
Farah kept making comments that were half-joke, half-gossip.
Faris’ father watched quietly, occasionally asking Jiawen small questions about Penang, about work, about whether she liked Singapore.
Jiawen answered politely.
She didn’t try to impress.
She didn’t try to shrink.
Door deal.
Meeting halfway.
At one point, Faris’ mother asked Jiawen if she wanted to join them for Maghrib prayer time.
Not to pray.
Just to understand the rhythm.
Jiawen nodded.
She sat quietly in the living room while Faris and his father prayed in the corner on their prayer mats.
Faris’ mother moved around them with practiced calm, adjusting the TV volume, tidying small things.
Jiawen watched.
Not like a tourist.
Like someone learning a household’s heartbeat.
When they finished, Faris glanced at her.
Her eyes were soft.
He felt his chest warm.
After dinner, as Jiawen helped clear plates, Faris’ mother stopped her.
“Leave,” she said.
Jiawen blinked. “I can help.”
His mother shook her head. “You already help. Enough.”
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she nodded.
“Thank you, Auntie,” she murmured.
His mother’s gaze held hers for a long moment.
Then she said quietly, “Come again.”
Jiawen’s breath caught.
A second invitation.
Not forced.
Not polite.
Real.
“Yes, Auntie,” Jiawen replied softly.
Faris’ mother nodded.
Then, as if unable to let it remain purely warm, she added, “Next time, bring your parents. We talk.”
Faris froze.
Jiawen froze.
Farah choked on her water.
Faris’ father looked up, eyebrows raised.
The air tightened for half a second.
Then Faris spoke, calm.
“Ma,” he said gently, “one step at a time.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed.
Faris continued, voice steady, “We will do it properly. But not rushed.”
His mother watched him.
Then she nodded once.
“Okay,” she said.
Another small word.
Another door opening just enough.
When Faris walked Jiawen to the lift lobby, the corridor felt different.
Not less intimidating.
But less sharp.
The air smelled the same.
But Jiawen’s shoulders were lower.
The lift arrived.
They stood in front of the closed doors.
Jiawen looked at him.
Her eyes were bright with exhaustion.
“She didn’t kill me,” Jiawen whispered.
Faris’s mouth twitched. “I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me about the onion goggles,” Jiawen accused.
Faris blinked. “I didn’t know.”
Jiawen stared. “How you don’t know your mother has onion goggles?”
Faris exhaled. “I don’t go into kitchen.”
Jiawen’s eyes widened. “That’s why she called you stubborn.”
Faris sighed.
Jiawen laughed softly.
Then her laughter faded.
She looked down at her hands.
“I was scared,” she admitted.
Faris’s gaze softened.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Jiawen looked up.
“But,” she continued, voice softer, “she invited me again.”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen’s mouth trembled. “That means… something.”
Faris’s throat tightened.
“It does,” he replied.
The lift doors opened.
They stepped in.
Inside the lift, the mirrors reflected them–two people standing too close to be casual and too careful to be reckless.
Jiawen glanced at the reflection.
Then she looked at Faris.
“Door deal,” she whispered.
Faris nodded.
“Door deal,” he echoed.
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she reached into her bag and pulled out something.
A small fridge magnet.
Penang.
Temple roof.
She pressed it into Faris’ palm.
“Put on your fridge,” she whispered.
Faris blinked.
“I don’t have magnets,” he began.
Jiawen glared. “Now you have.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
He closed his fingers around it.
A small piece of Penang in his hand.
A small proof that she wasn’t being erased.
The lift arrived at the ground floor.
The doors opened.
Jiawen stepped out.
She turned back.
For a second, the space between them felt too wide.
Then Jiawen smiled–small, real.
“Goodnight,” she said.
Faris nodded.
“Goodnight,” he replied.
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she whispered, “You okay?”
Faris blinked.
He realised, suddenly, how heavy this day had been.
Not because of hostility.
Because of stakes.
Because every small exchange had felt like it could shape the future.
He exhaled slowly.
“I’m okay,” he said honestly. “I’m… relieved.”
Jiawen’s eyes softened.
Faris looked at her.
He wanted to touch her.
He didn’t.
Not here.
Not in the lift lobby.
But he lifted his hand slightly.
A small gesture.
Jiawen understood.
She stepped closer and pressed her fingertips briefly to his palm.
A touch that lasted half a second.
Then she turned and walked away.
Faris watched her go.
He stood alone in the lift lobby, magnet in his hand, the smell of corridor still on his clothes.
Behind him, his mother’s voice drifted faintly from the flat.
Farah laughing.
His father’s calm.
A household continuing.
Faris looked down at the magnet again.
Penang.
Temple roof.
A reminder of a different family table.
A reminder that Jiawen carried her world with her, even into his.
He slipped the magnet into his pocket.
Then, without thinking, he touched the handkerchief too.
Two small objects.
Two quiet motifs.
Comfort.
Home.
Choice.
As he walked back toward his mother’s flat, Faris felt something settle under the day’s tension.
Not certainty.
Not victory.
But a direction.
His mother had invited Jiawen again.
His mother had asked to meet her parents.
His mother had not closed the door.
And Faris knew, with a calm that finally felt real, that the next step was no longer a distant idea.
It was approaching.
A seat at the table.
Reserved.
A question asked in front of witnesses.
Properly.
He didn’t know exactly when.
But he could feel it.
The corridor no longer looked like a boundary.
It looked like a path.