Chapter 15 - A Home Between Us
Chapter 15: A Home Between Us
Two years later, Jakarta greeted them with sun-warmed pavements and the scent of fried shallots drifting through the breeze. The air felt heavier than Singapore’s, but there was comfort in it—a familiar kind of weight.
Meilin stepped off the plane, cradling their daughter close to her chest. Rafiq walked beside her, the baby bag over his shoulder and a soft smile on his face. They didn’t speak much—just exchanged a quiet glance as they entered the arrival hall.
Her mother stood just beyond the barrier, arms folded with a handkerchief pressed to her lips. When she caught sight of them, her face crumpled. She didn’t rush forward, didn’t cry aloud—just waited until Meilin was close enough, then embraced her wordlessly.
And then, the baby. Her mother reached out, trembling, and Meilin gently passed her over. The older woman cooed, tears slipping down her cheeks. “So beautiful,” she whispered. “Just like you were.”
When she finally looked at Rafiq, her voice was warm. “Welcome home.”
Then, after a pause, her mother looked at Meilin again with something unreadable in her eyes. She cradled the baby close, then glanced around and said, quietly, “There’s something I should tell you.”
Meilin blinked. “What is it?”
Her mother gave a soft, almost shy smile. “While you were learning… I started learning too. Quietly. On my own time.”
Meilin’s breath caught.
“I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure it wasn’t just curiosity. But last Ramadan… I took my shahada.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Meilin’s hands went to her mouth, eyes filling.
“You—?”
Her mother nodded. “You were never alone in this.”
She stepped forward and kissed Meilin’s forehead, then pulled both her daughter and granddaughter close. Rafiq, quietly moved, bowed his head respectfully.
It wasn’t just a welcome. It was a reunion Meilin hadn’t known she’d been waiting for.
She held onto her mother tightly, overwhelmed by how quietly love had been forming in the background of their lives—an unspoken accompaniment to her own journey. Her mother’s hands, once so hesitant about Rafiq, now gently cupped Safiya’s cheek, her whisper soft but steady: “She will grow up knowing peace from both our prayers.”
Meilin pulled back, eyes searching hers. “Were you scared?”
Her mother smiled faintly. “Of course. Change always brings fear. But also… wonder. I watched you change with grace. I followed with questions. And when I felt something open in me, I let it.”
Rafiq stepped closer, bowing his head. “Thank you… for trusting us.”
Her mother looked at him and said simply, “Thank you for protecting my daughter’s heart.”
Then, she wrapped an arm around Meilin and gestured to the path ahead. “Come, let’s go home. There’s sambal on the stove and tea waiting. It’s a different kitchen now, but it’s still ours.”
—
Life in Singapore had taken its own rhythm.
Their flat was small, perched in a quiet corner of Bedok, filled with soft light in the mornings and the hum of fans at night. The laundry rack was always full, the shelves stacked with board books, potted plants, and ceramic mugs collected from weekend pasar malams. Meilin’s permanent role as an administrator gave her a quiet pride—she now led a small team, mentoring newer staff with the same patience she once received.
Rafiq’s engineering job remained demanding, but he had found a balance—coming home in time for dinner most nights, sometimes with teh peng or tau huay in hand. They shared kitchen duties, fell into a rhythm of small, steady things: sweeping after Safiya’s scattered blocks, taking turns with night feeds, watching old films curled up on their two-seater couch.
On weekends, they visited East Coast Park, letting Safiya toddle barefoot on the grass. Sometimes, Rafiq would hum the same love ballad they first sang together, low and off-key, just to make Meilin laugh.
Faith, too, had found its place—gently, not rushed.
One morning, before dawn, Meilin stood in the quiet of their living room. The prayer mat lay before her. She moved slowly, carefully, whispering verses she had once only read with curious eyes.
Her recitation wasn’t perfect, but it was full.
From the bedroom door, Rafiq watched in silence. Not to correct. Not to lead. Just to witness.
When she finished, he walked over and kissed her forehead. “I love hearing your voice in prayer,” he said.
She smiled, heart full.
—
Jakarta was louder than she remembered, but also softer in places. The traffic still hummed with endless scooters, the roadside stalls called out with grilled satay smoke and clinking spoons. But there were new coffee shops beside old warungs, and familiar street names that now led to unfamiliar glass buildings.
They visited her childhood home—a narrow, two-storey house with peeling paint and bougainvillea spilling over the gate. The moment Meilin stepped into the courtyard, something in her chest shifted. The tiled floor, still a little cracked at the edge. The rusted bell her cousins used to ring nonstop. Everything was smaller than she remembered, but it was all still hers.
Her uncles and aunties arrived in waves, bringing fruit and stories. Someone brought a basket of mangosteens, someone else a large tin of kuih lapis. Her cousins joked about the time she cried because a kite got stuck on the telephone wire. The laughter was easy, wrapping around her like the warmth of an old blanket.
Rafiq, too, eased into the setting. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did—his Bahasa halting, his smile apologetic—he was met with patient corrections and generous grins. Meilin watched him from the side, heart full, as he laughed with her family like he’d always belonged there.
Rafiq sat cross-legged on the floor, their daughter on his lap, playing with a wooden spoon. He laughed with Meilin’s cousins, attempting his best Bahasa Indonesia, and nodding patiently when corrected.
Her mother hosted a small gathering that evening—just close friends and neighbours. The house filled with soft footsteps and slippered laughter. Dishes clinked in the kitchen, and someone turned on an old fan that whirred like a memory.
There was food in abundance—rendang, ayam goreng, steamed rice wrapped in banana leaves, fresh-cut papaya. The conversations flowed in mixed tongues—Bahasa Indonesia, Javanese, a little English. Someone joked about Rafiq being the most well-fed foreign son-in-law they’d ever seen. He laughed, and so did Meilin.
One of her aunts brought out a photo album, pointing out old pictures of Meilin as a child, grinning gap-toothed beside a school project or holding a rambutan like treasure. Her cousins teased her lovingly, and Rafiq looked at the pictures like they were pieces of a puzzle he’d always wanted to complete.
As the evening deepened, a cousin strummed an old guitar. The strings were a little off-tune, but the song—an Indonesian ballad about finding love unexpectedly—made the room pause. Meilin swayed gently with Safiya in her arms, the baby blinking sleepily to the rhythm of her mother’s heartbeat.
Outside, the lamps along the street flickered on, casting long shadows through the open windows. The night was humid, but the kind of humid that held joy in its bones.
Later that night, with the child asleep and the house quiet, Meilin and Rafiq stepped out for a walk through the dimly lit street near her old home. The air was thick with warmth and memory, the streetlights casting soft halos across the pavement.
Meilin held onto Rafiq’s arm, their steps slow, unhurried. The sounds of the city felt distant now—just the hum of a fridge from a corner shop, the chirp of crickets.
For a while, they walked in silence. Then Meilin whispered, “Do you think we’re doing okay? Really okay?”
Rafiq looked at her—not startled, just thoughtful. “I think we’re learning. Every day. I don’t think okay means perfect.”
She nodded. “Sometimes I still wonder if I did enough to bridge everything—my family, my past, my faith. Like I’m constantly translating myself.”
“You don’t have to be fluent in everything,” he said. “You just have to be honest. And you’ve always been that.”
They passed the small park where she used to play as a child, the swings rusted slightly, the grass patchy but familiar.
Rafiq added, “You don’t carry it all alone, Mei. I’m in this with you. Every version of you.”
Meilin stopped walking. The moon was out now, veiled lightly behind a layer of cloud.
“I’m scared sometimes,” she admitted.
“I know,” Rafiq said.
“But I’ve never been more sure of something in my life.”
They stood there for a while, her head resting against his shoulder, the world softened in the hush of night.
Above them, the stars blinked between the clouds.
Meilin looked at him, then at their sleeping daughter nestled against his chest.
Safiya’s tiny hand had curled instinctively around the fabric of Rafiq’s shirt, her soft breath rising and falling in rhythm with his. The sight tugged something deep within Meilin—gratitude, awe, a quiet wonder at how something so small could feel like the center of the universe.
She reached out and ran a thumb gently across Safiya’s forehead, brushing aside a damp curl. “She’s going to grow up between languages, between cultures,” she murmured, “but maybe… that’s where the strength is.”
Rafiq nodded, his gaze fixed on their daughter. “She’ll grow up loved. That’s what matters.”
And she smiled.
“Sometimes, love crosses borders.
Sometimes, it builds a home right between them.”
—
Epilogue
Months after their Jakarta visit, Meilin sat alone on their balcony one evening, the city lights of Singapore glowing faintly below. Safiya had just fallen asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Rafiq was inside, humming tunelessly as he washed the dishes.
Meilin opened her journal—one she hadn’t touched in weeks. She stared at the first few pages, the entries written during moments of hesitation and discovery. Then she turned to a blank one and wrote:
This isn’t a story that ends with a kiss or a wedding. It ends here—with quiet mornings and shared prayers, baby toys underfoot, and a partner who listens more than he speaks.
Love didn’t change me. It unfolded me.
She paused, then added:
And if she ever asks how it began, I’ll say—it began when I heard his voice in song. But it continued… every day we chose to stay.
—
Author’s Note
When the Song Began was written with a heart full of gratitude—for love that defies expectations, for faith that grows in quiet corners, and for the spaces where culture, language, and belief meet and dance gently.
This story was never meant to be loud. It was meant to be steady. Tender. Honest. Just like the kind of love that asks you to stay when staying takes courage.
To those navigating faith, identity, and belonging—your journey is your own, and it is enough.
Thank you for walking alongside Meilin and Rafiq. May you carry a little warmth from their story into your own.