The house was quiet. Her husband had already gone to bed, his soft snoring drifting faintly through the half-closed bedroom door. Her two stepchildren were still out. It was almost midnight. Earlier, her stepdaughter had called to say she was going out with friends.
“Don’t wait up for me, Mak Cik. And no need to prepare dinner.” Her step son has gone to Malaysia over the weekend with his friends. She had smiled on the phone, said okay, okay, take care—her voice warm, as always.
But now, standing alone in the dimly lit hallway, something in her chest felt hollow. She had been alone many times before. Entire evenings spent in silence, waiting. But tonight felt different. Tonight, she felt lonely. The kind of loneliness that crept into her bones.
She had the sudden urge to do something. To fill the silence. To be useful. Maybe she could do some laundry. Perhaps there were clothes left in her stepdaughter’s room. She walked quietly across the house and opened the door, just slightly.
The room was dark but neat. She flicked on the side lamp and looked around. Nothing. The laundry basket was empty. She had already done the washing earlier that day—dried, folded, and ironed. The wardrobe was neatly arranged. Every blouse, every pair of trousers in place.
There was nothing left for her to do. She stood there for a moment, uncertain. Her hands rested at her sides, fingers fidgeting. Then she turned and walked toward her stepson’s room. She stopped at the door. Something told her not to enter. But still, she leaned forward, just enough to peer through the slight gap. It was the same—neat, precise, untouched. The bed perfectly made. The pillows stacked properly. Not a crease out of place. His books were stacked on his desk in clean, measured lines. His wardrobe slightly ajar, revealing freshly laundered shirts, all ironed and covered in dry cleaner’s plastic. He had sent them to the laundry again.
Many times she had offered to do it for him—wash, dry, iron—save him some money. She would have done it with love. But he had politely declined, each time. “No thank you, Mak Cik. I prefer it this way.” And so she had learned to let go of that little hope. His room, like his routines, was a world she could not enter. Everything in its place. A private order. A silent boundary. She didn’t dare step inside. She knew never to touch anything. Not the books. Not the drawers. Not the sheets. He wouldn’t shout. But she would know. His silence would be sharper than words.
She stayed at the door a little longer, then turned away. Not needed. Not wanted. Not angry. Just... invisible. She walked back down the hallway slowly, her footsteps soft. The quiet felt heavier now. The kind that reminded her of all the things she wanted to give but couldn’t. She sat down in the kitchen and wrapped her arms around herself.
All she ever wanted was to care. To be accepted. To feel useful. To belong. But in this house polite, orderly, and full of unspoken rules there was no space for her kind of love. Still, she stayed. Because love, for her, was not about being thanked. It was about staying—even when no one asked her to.
Earlier that morning, she had gone back to her own house—the flat where her youngest son was still staying. The moment she stepped in, her heart sank. The place was a mess.
Dirty clothes strewn across the living room sofa, magazines and newspapers piled haphazardly on the floor. Dust clung to the corners. The once-thriving potted plants by the window were withering, their leaves yellow and drooping. She sighed, already reaching for the broom.
Why can’t he be more like his brother? she often wondered, even though she hated herself for thinking it. They were about the same age—her youngest son and her second husband’s youngest. She tried not to compare. She really did. But as time went on, the differences were becoming harder to ignore. One lived in a neatly kept room, sent his clothes to the laundry, held a stable job. The other barely kept things in order, still depended on her, drifted through life without direction.
Many times she had grumbled at him. Scolded him for the mess, for sleeping in, for wasting time. But nothing changed. Her words floated through the house and fell flat. Still, every day she came back here. She cooked, she cleaned, she watered the plants. Then, in the evening, she would head back to her second husband’s home. This was her life now—a quiet shuffle between two houses.
One was hers, left behind by her late husband. The other, her new home by marriage. Only two names were on the deed to this flat—hers and her youngest son’s. This was the only thing her first husband had left behind. And even that wasn’t fully paid. She was still repaying the housing loan. Her youngest did give her money now and then—but just enough to cover the utilities.
What could she expect from a national serviceman’s allowance? Even with occasional part-time jobs, the extra income was barely enough for his own expenses. He was still young. He wanted to go out, spend time with friends. She understood that. She didn’t want to impose too much on him. She had never wanted to be that kind of mother.
But if only… she thought, if only he would try a little harder. Get serious. Go back and complete his ‘O’ Levels. He’d have a better chance at a decent job. But he had other plans. “Mak, don’t worry. I’ve got my own path,” he always told her, brushing aside her concern with a grin that reminded her so much of his father’s charm—and none of his steadiness. His own path. She didn’t understand what that meant anymore. Music? Football? DJ-ing?
Dreams, she feared, that came with no discipline. Just distractions. And so she cleaned, swept, folded his laundry. She left food in the rice cooker, scribbled a note, and returned to her second husband’s house before sunset. Two homes. Two sons. Two worlds pulling her in opposite directions. And in between, she stood—trying to hold everything together, while slowly falling apart. Her heart clenched with that familiar ache as her thoughts turned to the other two sons—the fourth and fifth in the family. Both in the rehabilitation center.
Both lost to a world she no longer understood. She had done everything she could. Tried everything. Pleaded, prayed, scolded, begged. Sent them for programs, spoke to counsellors, read pamphlets about addiction. Nothing seemed to work. She had watched them spiral again and again—each time with a little more of her hope chipped away.
Now, she didn’t know what else to do. She had no more hope left to offer them. Her fourth son had managed to stay out for six months once—six months of fragile normalcy. And then, just like that, he was back in. Same cycle. Same darkness. Same pain. At this point, she found herself wishing they would just stay in the center. It was painful to admit. But it was the truth. At least in there, they were safe. Fed. Watched. Clean.
Outside, they were unpredictable. Desperate. Lost. And she could not bear another midnight knock on the door, or another phone call from the police. The anxiety had aged her. It had broken something in her she could never name. She used to cry for them. Secretly. Silently. Late at night, when no one could hear, she’d clutch their photos and whisper Ya Allah, help them.
But now… the tears still came—but for a different reason. She no longer cried for what they had become. She cried for herself. For the years she had given. The strength she had spent. The life that had passed her by while she held on, believing a mother’s love was enough to save anyone. But sometimes… love wasn’t enough. And that realisation was the sharpest cut of all.
“Mak Cik, you’re still awake?” Her stepdaughter’s voice startled her gently in the darkness. She hadn’t noticed her come in. She was too deep in thought, her heart still heavy with quiet sorrow.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said softly. “How was dinner with your friends? Where did you all go?”
“We had fish head curry at Apollo Banana Leaf,” the girl replied, easing herself beside her on the sofa.
“How was the wedding today? Were there a lot of relatives?”
“Yes… almost all of them came. Especially your father’s side. They were asking about you.”
“Oh? Phew… glad I didn’t go,” her stepdaughter said with a sheepish grin.
“Your second brother and his wife were there too.”
“Really?” She nodded slowly. “Did they… did they come and greet you and Dad?”
“No.” Her voice trembled. “They ignored us. They salaam everyone—except your father and me.”
“Oh…” “I know they hate me. That, I can understand. But why your father? He is still their father. What wrong has he done to them?” She paused, swallowing the ache building in her throat. “They saw us, and they moved away. They hid.
As if we were strangers. His wife even told their daughter, right in front of me—‘That’s not your real grandmother. Your real grandmother is dead.’” The words spilled out before she could stop them. And then—so did the tears.
Soft, small, almost embarrassed tears. But they came, and they wouldn’t stop. “What sin have I committed?” she whispered, barely able to hold herself together. “Please… tell me.”
She bowed her head, as though apologising to no one and everyone at once. Her shoulders trembled. The pain buried for so long rose from somewhere deep, raw and unfiltered. She hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of anyone. Not again.
But the weight of it—the shame, the loneliness, the quiet rejection had become too much. Noorie sat frozen for a moment, caught off guard by the vulnerability before her. Then, without a word, she reached over and wrapped her arms around the older woman.
Gently at first. And then more firmly, as though trying to hold together everything that was unravelling. The stepmother didn’t resist. She leaned in, slowly, until her head rested on Noorie’s shoulder.
Her tears soaked into the younger woman’s blouse, but Noorie didn’t flinch. She just held her tighter, her hand moving in soft, slow circles across her back.
“I’m so sorry, Mak Cik,” she said, her own voice beginning to waver. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not a thing.” Still she cried years of silent grief, tucked into corners of kitchens and empty hallways, now finding release in the warmth of a single embrace.
Noorie didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t tell her to be strong. Didn’t offer advice. She simply sat with her in the darkness, letting the silence hold them both. Because sometimes, the only answer to pain is presence.
And in that moment, the stepmother so long unseen, unacknowledged was no longer invisible. She was not just a helper, or a replacement, or an outsider. She was a woman who had loved too deeply and asked for too little. And finally, someone had seen her.
Chpt 21 / 36
