10:00 p.m.
She heard them come in—earlier than usual. The familiar sound of the front door clicking shut, footsteps shuffling through the hallway, then silence as each retreated into their respective rooms.
She waited a while, listening. No one came into the kitchen. No laughter, no casual remarks. Just the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of her chair as she stood up. The food she had lovingly prepared still sat untouched on the table. The curry had cooled, the rice hardened slightly around the edges.
Her heart sank—not in anger, but in quiet resignation. Wordlessly, she began transferring the dishes into containers, one by one, her movements slow and deliberate. She was just about to place the last container into the fridge when a voice stopped her. Her stepdaughter. She didn’t say much—just a polite, almost rehearsed sentence. But it was enough. Enough to tell her what she already suspected.
“They don’t like my cooking,” she thought to herself. The words repeated softly in her mind, more a whisper of sorrow than complaint. It wasn’t just the food. When she tried to help with the washing, the youngest son told her firmly not to.
“It’s okay, Auntie,” he had said, almost coldly.
“I’ll do it myself.” His sister echoed the same when she offered to wash her nursing uniform.
“No need,” she replied, without even looking up from her phone. She stood there now, in the half-lit kitchen, her hands slightly damp, her heart heavier than the Tupperware in her arms. Why not? she asked herself again. What did I do wrong? She had tried—tried so hard to be a good stepmother. To tread lightly in this home that was not entirely hers. To make it easier for them. To cook the meals they liked. To keep things neat, familiar. To stay out of the way when needed, and be helpful when invited. But nothing seemed to be working.
They were polite enough. But distant. Always distant. It was hard to read their faces. The younger son, especially—always so quiet, his brows perpetually furrowed. She had barely ever seen him smile. Even at dinner, he barely spoke a word. Maybe it’s his job, she thought, trying to soften her own judgment. He’s an engineer, after all. Maybe there’s stress at work. Deadlines. Boss problems.
Long hours. She sighed, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Maybe it’s not personal. Maybe I’m just overthinking it. Silly old me. Still, she couldn’t shake the sadness that clung to her like damp clothes. All she wanted was to belong. To care for them. To be accepted.
But in this house—this strange new chapter of her life—she wasn’t sure what role she was allowed to play. She closed the fridge quietly, turned off the kitchen light, and walked back to her room. Alone. He had always been kind to her.
From the moment they were married, he told her she didn’t have to work anymore. “You’ve done enough,” he had said, his voice warm with sincerity. “Let me take care of you now.” But she had insisted. She had been working nearly her entire life.
To stop now, to sit still and watch the days pass by without purpose, would not do her any good. Work gave her rhythm, a reason to wake, something to hold on to.
“Okay then,” he had relented a few days ago, stroking her hand gently, “but don’t push yourself too hard. If you’re tired or just don’t feel like going in, stay home. Rest.” He meant well. He always did. But she never told him about the discomfort she felt with his children.
She didn’t want to disturb the delicate balance of his relationship with them. It wasn’t her place to complain. If anything, it would only make things harder—for him, for them, for herself. So she bore it all quietly. At first, she had been unsure whether his children would accept her. It had been her greatest fear. But to her surprise, most of them had shown her kindness.
They were polite, respectful, and at times even warm. All, that is, except for his second son—the one who worked at Singapore Telecom. He was the only one who remained distant, his silence always heavy, his eyes unreadable. With him, she never quite knew where she stood.
The sound of footsteps brought her out of her thoughts. She turned and saw the youngest daughter entering the kitchen, still in her nursing uniform, the fabric slightly creased, her eyes tired but alert.
“Mak Cik… you’re still awake?” she said, surprised. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied softly, folding the towel she had been using. “Just clearing away the food. I thought you and your brother might want dinner…” The girl looked at the containers she hadn’t yet moved.
“No… don’t keep it. I’ll eat.”
“It’s already late. You’ve eaten outside?” She shook her head.
“No, I haven’t. I’m not really hungry… but since you’ve cooked, I’ll eat it. It’s okay. Just leave the food on the table.” She nodded.
“Have you eaten?”
“I’ll eat later,” she said, brushing her fringe back. “Let me change and come back down.” But instead, she pulled out a chair and sat across the table.
She knew—the girl was doing this not out of hunger, but out of something else. A quiet kindness. A gentle acknowledgment. It made her heart soften.
“I’m sorry, Mak Cik,” the girl said, glancing at her. “I should have called you not to cook for me… The ward was hectic. We didn’t even get time to step out for dinner.” The stepmother smiled faintly.
“It’s alright. I just thought… maybe you’d be hungry.” The daughter looked at her, brows creased slightly.
“How was your day today?” she asked, making an effort, trying to draw her in.
“You look a little sad. Is something the matter?” There it was—that moment. That sliver of concern. That small window where care was extended.
She hesitated, unsure whether to open up or to offer the usual smile and brush it off. But in that instant, she felt something shift—just a little. Maybe things weren’t perfect. But maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all lost.
“Nothing…” she tried to brush it off, but before she could turn away—
“I know,” the girl interrupted gently. “It’s about my brother, right?” The stepdaughter leaned in slightly, her voice soft, sincere.
“Mak Cik… you’ve been very good to us. Especially to my father. I want you to know that I really appreciate it.” She paused, searching her face for a moment, then added with a small, sympathetic smile,
“Okay… if washing my uniform means a lot to you… go ahead. But please, don’t mix it with the other clothes. I always wash it separately.” A pause.
“As for my brother… don’t take it too hard. Just leave him be. If he doesn’t want his clothes or bed sheets changed or washed, let it be. He’ll do it himself.”
She blinked, unsure what to say, but the daughter continued, her voice calm, explaining: “That’s just how we were brought up, Mak Cik. Our mother was already sick when we were very young. So we had to learn to take care of ourselves—and each other. It’s not about you. It just… takes time. We’ll adjust. He’ll adjust.”
“Baiklah,” she replied softly. It was all she could say. She was still learning how to read them, still trying to belong in a family already shaped by hardship and self-reliance. But maybe—maybe—in time, things would fall into place.
“You still going to that lady’s house to iron clothes?” her stepdaughter asked, changing the subject. “Yes… and the pile keeps getting bigger,” she said, rubbing her hands lightly. “My fingers are starting to ache.”
“You don’t have to keep doing that, you know. Why not try something lighter? Like helping out in a hawker stall, maybe in the kitchen—just serving food or cleaning. Less strain.” She nodded slowly.
“I’ve been thinking about it. I told them I might stop, but they keep calling me. I’ve been with them for so long… I don’t know how to say no. They’ve supported me for years. Now suddenly I stop—what will they think of me?” Her stepdaughter’s eyes lit up with an idea.
“I got it. Why don’t you and Dad take a trip? Visit my sister in the U.S. Stay there for a couple of months. That’ll give you the perfect excuse to stop ironing. You can say you're going overseas.” She blinked, caught off guard.
“You need the rest. And you’ve never met my sister in person, right? Or her daughter. You only spoke to her once, over the phone, after the solemnisation. She really likes you. She told us how happy she was to welcome you into the family.”
“To America…” she echoed, stunned. A half-laugh escaped her lips, but her heart clenched at the thought. Just yesterday, she had watched a news report—another plane crash. No survivors.
And now they want me to get on a plane... to cross the ocean? But if her husband wanted her to go… if the children insisted… could she say no? Still, her mind drifted elsewhere—what about her sons?
Especially the younger ones. And the two still in the center. What would they do without her? Would they feel abandoned?
As if reading her thoughts, the stepdaughter said gently, “I’ll go with Kak Zawiyah to the center. We’ll visit your sons. If that makes you feel better.” She looked at her, eyes slightly glistening.
Not from sadness. But something else. Maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something healing. Something whole.
Chpt 18 / 36
