It was almost noon when she stepped out of the Rehabilitation Centre. The air was fresh with the scent of earlier rain—cool and earthy. The grass along the path still glistened, damp beneath the pale sunlight. She walked slowly toward the bus stop, her eldest daughter Zawiyah by her side.
It had become a ritual of sorts—this monthly visit. Of all her children, only Zawiyah still came with her. Faithfully. Quietly. Her sons? They had long since given up. Even speaking about the matter seemed to trigger something bitter in them. “You should just let them rot in there. Why do you still bother?” they would scoff when she called, hoping someone else might accompany her. They never did.
They were ashamed. Ashamed of their brothers. Ashamed of her. But she was their mother. And those two, no matter how deep their fall, were still her sons. She remembered the pain they'd caused. The nights spent weeping into her pillow, praying for sleep to dull the ache. The betrayals. The anger. The silence.
All of it. Still, how could she not go? How could a mother turn her heart to stone? Especially when the younger one still wrote to her. Long, rambling letters filled with apologies—some heartfelt, some rehearsed—interspersed with bits of borrowed philosophy and fragile promises: "I will be good this time, Mak. I will stay clean once I get out. I swear it."
She wanted, so desperately, to believe him. But she knew better now. She had learned that promises are easy things beautiful and weightless, floating on paper like dreams. And just as easily broken. How many times had she read words like those? Too many to count. Too many to still believe.
Yet there she was—again—walking the same path, bearing the same invisible burden. Because love, for all its hurt, does not forget. It clings, it forgives, it hopes—even when it shouldn’t. And because they were her sons. Her blood. Her bones. She carried that truth with her as she sat beside Zawiyah at the bus stop, staring out at the road ahead. Silent. Steady. Waiting for the bus, and whatever came next. But today’s visit wasn’t just another routine of tears and small talk across the scratched metal table.
Today, she came with purpose. There was something she needed to tell them. Something that would change the rhythm of their lives, even if only from behind those cold walls. She wasn’t here seeking permission—she was long past that—but she needed them to know. And perhaps, deep down, she did want their blessing.
All her other children knew. Zawiyah had been the first to find out, of course. Then the rest, one by one. They had all said the same thing in different words: “It’s your life, Mak. If you’re happy, we’re happy.”
But those two… the ones who had cost her so much grief… they still mattered. As much as she tried to reason herself out of it, their opinions still held weight in her heart. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just love, bruised and exhausted but still stubbornly alive.
She had rehearsed the words on the bus ride over. Not too long, not too dramatic. Just clear enough to let them know that after all these years, after raising them alone, after holding a family together with the fraying threads of her patience and sacrifice—she was choosing herself now.
It wasn’t a grand love story, nothing like the romantic fantasies her daughters giggled about. But it was real. Gentle. Unexpected. A man who had stood quietly beside her these past few months. A widower, kind-hearted and simple. He helped her carry groceries without being asked. Made her laugh at things she thought she'd forgotten how to find funny. Spoke of growing old as something to be shared, not feared.
She wasn’t even sure she wanted to remarry. Not formally, at least. But she did want companionship. Someone to walk beside her, not behind or ahead. She needed her sons to understand that. To know she wasn’t abandoning them.
That she wasn’t erasing their father’s memory. She only wanted to live the years she had left with a little peace. A little tenderness. Would they understand? She wasn’t sure. But she needed to see their faces when she said it.
To read the truth behind their forced smiles or indifferent shrugs. To know, one last time, that even after everything—they were still a part of her decision, however small. She tightened her shawl as the bus came into view. Zawiyah touched her arm gently. “You don’t have to tell them, Mak. Not if it will upset you.”
But she shook her head. Her voice was steady. “No. They are my sons. They have the right to know.” And perhaps, if she was lucky, they might offer something back—an honest reaction, a word of encouragement, or even just the quiet respect of acceptance. She could only hope.
It had been so long. She sat quietly beside Zawiyah on the bus, her thoughts louder than the rumble of the engine. The trees blurred past the window, but her mind was elsewhere—sifting through years already gone. She had been widowed at forty-six.
A heart attack, sudden and cruel, had taken her husband away without warning. One moment he was there, laughing at something on TV, and the next, slumped forward, unreachable. Just like that, she became a widow. A single mother of six. There was no time to grieve properly. No space for sorrow when mouths still needed feeding and schoolbooks needed paying for.
He had left behind no savings—just a modest HDB flat and a mountain of debt she hadn’t even known existed until the bills came knocking. With no formal education, she couldn’t afford to be picky. Any decent, honest job that came her way—she took it. Some weeks, she worked in someone’s kitchen, scrubbing pots until her hands cracked from detergent.
Other days, she went house to house ironing clothes for strangers, her back aching but her will unbroken. There were moments she remembered sitting alone on the MRT late at night, counting out crumpled dollar notes and wondering if it would be enough for groceries the next day.
And always—always—there was the guilt. The crushing guilt of leaving her children at home, unsupervised, hoping they wouldn’t fight or skip school or worse. But what choice did she have? Someone had to keep the lights on. Her children had learned early how to fend for themselves.
The older ones watched the younger ones. Meals were simple. Routines were rough. But they survived. What she hadn’t seen—what she refused to see at the time—was how the cracks had started to form. Quietly, subtly. The two middle boys—so full of mischief, always pushing limits—had slowly drifted. First it was school truancy, then petty theft, then something darker. By the time she realised, the drugs had already sunk their teeth into them.
She carried that pain like a scar etched deep into her chest. She blamed herself. No matter how many people told her otherwise. If only I stayed home more. If only I had noticed sooner. If only their father had lived… But what use was blame now? It didn’t change the past. It didn’t make the nights she cried into her pillow any shorter. It didn’t soften the memory of the first time she saw her son in handcuffs, eyes bloodshot, face full of shame.
Even now, walking into the center, smelling the cold sterilised air, hearing the familiar echo of gates closing behind her—it all reminded her of that same sorrow she’d carried for years. But she kept coming. She couldn’t abandon them. Because they were her sons. Because they were still hers.
Today, she would tell them her news. And maybe, just maybe, their reaction would help heal a part of the wound she'd kept hidden all this time. It had been such a long time. She sighed, a deep breath that trembled slightly as it left her lips. Her eyes scanned the road, though her mind drifted far from the bus stop where she stood.
All these years—her life had been consumed by the endless cycle of bills, responsibilities, and the needs of her children. There was no room for other thoughts, let alone for herself. She had pushed aside every personal longing, every flicker of companionship, because survival had left her no choice. Until that afternoon.
When Masnah, her old neighbor from Lorong K, came to visit her. It wasn’t just a casual visit. It was a proposal. Not the first, if she was honest. There had been others—especially in the year after her husband's death. But she had refused every single one of them. She didn’t have the heart. She didn’t have the strength. She couldn’t bear the risk of bringing someone new into her children’s lives—what if he didn’t treat them well?
The unspoken taboos lingered: stepfathers, blended families, whispered stories in the neighborhood. She refused to let her children become victims of uncertainty.
“I’m already old, Nah,” she had told them, embarrassed. “Who would want someone like me?” But Masnah was insistent.
“He is a good man, Kak. My cousin. Like a brother to me. We pity him. Ever since his wife passed suddenly, he’s been alone. Very lonely.” Zarinah had chimed in too.
“You’re just nice for him, Kak. He’s simple, not fussy. Very easy-going. You two will get along well.” They had all grown up together in the same kampong, playing in the sand lanes of Lorong K near Teluk Kurau. Even after moving into HDB flats, they stayed connected.
They’d meet at the mosque for religious classes, sitting cross-legged on the prayer mats while Ustazah Hapsah taught them patience and acceptance.
“What about his children?” she had asked, not out of interest—but out of caution.
“He’s living with his youngest daughter and son now. Both work full time. They’re hardly at home,” Masnah replied. “He’s retired already. Alone most of the time. That’s why we feel sorry for him.”
“And his other children?”
“All married and settled. One daughter in America, another runs a hair salon. The sons work, have families of their own.”
“You said he had seven children… What happened to the last one?”
“Oh… that one,” Zarinah’s voice dropped. “He’s… somewhere. Nobody knows for sure. Let’s not talk about him.” Then their tone shifted, gentle but persuasive. “But the main thing, Kak, is you. We pity you too. You work so hard. You’ve done enough. You deserve someone to care for you for once. If you marry him, you won’t need to work anymore. His pension is more than enough.” Still, her fears remained.
“I’m scared, Nah… Maz. His children… they’re so educated, so successful. And look at mine… Look at the two in rehab. What would they think of me? And the youngest—he’s finishing his National Service soon but refuses to retake his O-levels. Just football and his DJ nonsense. I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel ashamed.” She paused, then added softly, “We’re not like them. They’re from a different world. The educated ones. The ones who speak good English, who travel overseas.
We’re kampong people. Simple. Struggling. I’m afraid they’ll look down on me… on my children.” She didn’t say it outright, but the words hung heavy in the air—they were the other Malays. Not better, not worse. Just… different.
Different in ways that mattered in family conversations, in expectations, in how they defined success and shame. She had seen this unspoken divide before—among neighbors, relatives, even in the mosque. She had always lived on one side of that divide, and now she was being asked to cross it.
“Don’t be, Kak. His children are kind. They’ll understand. Don’t let fear stop you from being happy.” She had lowered her eyes then, nodding faintly. “This is my fate… I accept it with open arms. But let me think about it. I must talk to my children first.”
And now, standing at the bus stop with Zawiyah beside her, her heart beat a little faster. Maybe they’re right. How long more could she go on like this? She was tired. Tired in her bones, in her heart. There were days she wanted to give up. But she never did. Because someone had to put food on the table. And she didn’t want to be a burden to her children. They had their own families now, their own struggles.
So she kept going. Taking jobs when they came. Pushing her body to move even when her joints ached and her spirit faltered. But maybe—just maybe—change was okay. Maybe it was time to allow something different. Something softer. She hadn’t let another man into her life since her husband. Not even close.
But now… could she? Could she open that door again? A smile ghosted across her lips as she recalled Osman’s voice on the phone—so bright, so teasing.
“Wah! Man’s getting a new father!” She chuckled softly, tears threatening the corner of her eyes. The bus pulled up. She stepped aboard, a little lighter, a little uncertain, but no longer afraid, perhaps it was time to begin again.
Chpt 14 / 36
