When the son leaves.... : Chapter 1

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Disclaimer ya, all the stories I write are fictional, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events are all purely coincidental. Names, characters, places and events are just the product of my imagination or just used fictitiously.  

Are you ready for a new story? Well, here goes:

Title: When the son leaves....

Chapter 1: The Chosen One

He was the kind of boy people trusted without knowing why.

Not because he was loud or charming in a way that demanded attention, but because he listened—really listened. When she spoke, he didn’t check his phone or finish her sentences. He waited, as if her thoughts mattered enough to arrive in their own time. He remembered things she mentioned once in passing. The name of her childhood cat. How she took her tea. The way she went quiet when conversations turned sharp.

It felt safe to be seen by him.

They met without drama. No sparks that exploded on contact, no love-at-first-sight stories worth retelling. Instead, it was gentle. Easy. The kind of connection that didn’t announce itself but stayed. He walked her home on evenings that stretched longer than planned. He asked questions without turning them into interrogations. He never rushed her affection, never made her feel like love was something she owed.

When she told her friends about him, she used words like steady and kind. They smiled politely at first—until they met him.

“This one’s different,” one of them said later, surprised.

She already knew.

Meeting his mother came sooner than she expected. She worried about it more than she admitted. Mothers, she’d learned, were not always reflections of their sons. But when the woman opened the door, her smile was immediate and warm, as though she had been waiting for her all along.

“So this is her,” his mother said, reaching for her hands. “I’ve heard so much.”

The house smelled like something sweet baking. There were framed photographs everywhere—school graduations, family trips, a younger version of the boy standing proudly beside his mother. His father was quieter, polite but distant. It was the mother who filled the room, her voice carrying comfort and familiarity.

“You must be tired,” she said. “Sit. Eat. You’re too thin.”

It sounded like care.

Throughout the evening, his mother spoke kindly of her. She complimented her manners, her education, her calmness. She told stories about his childhood that made him groan and laugh at the same time. More than once, she squeezed the girl’s hand and said, “I’m so glad he found you.”

On the drive home, he glanced at her nervously. “She can be… a lot. Was she okay?”

“She was lovely,” she said honestly. “I like her.”

Relief softened his face. He reached for her hand and held it the rest of the way.

From then on, everything unfolded as if guided by quiet approval. His mother called her often—checking in, offering advice, sending food over. She praised her to relatives. Introduced her proudly. Told her, more than once, “I’ve always wanted a daughter.”

It made the girl feel chosen in a way she hadn’t expected.

When he proposed, it wasn’t extravagant. Just him, a ring, and a question asked with sincerity instead of spectacle. She said yes without hesitation. His mother cried when they told her. Hugged her tightly. Whispered, “Welcome to the family.”

The wedding was joyful. The kind where laughter came easily and tears were happy ones. His mother stood beaming in every photo, adjusting the girl’s veil, fixing her hair, kissing her cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” she said. “Take care of my son.”

“I will,” the girl promised.

She believed marriage would deepen what already existed—love, trust, companionship. She believed family expanded with kindness. She believed that a woman who smiled so warmly could not mean harm.

On their first night in their new home, as they lay side by side in unfamiliar quiet, he told her, “If anything ever makes you uncomfortable, you tell me. Always.”

She smiled into the darkness. “Nothing will.”

And in that moment, she meant it.

She did not yet know that safety can feel identical to danger—until the doors close.

She did not know that some love is only gentle when watched.

And she did not know that one day, the boy who never raised his voice would have to choose silence—or leave.

 /---

Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 20.

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 20: The Will

Reza died on a quiet morning.

There was no drama to it, no sudden rush of alarms. Just a long night that folded gently into dawn. Ifa had been awake for hours, counting breaths without meaning to, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest as if repetition could make it permanent.

When it stopped, she knew.

She pressed her forehead to his hand—still warm, still familiar—and stayed that way until the room shifted around her. Nurses came softly. Words were spoken carefully. Time moved forward without asking permission.

Widow.

The word did not land immediately. It hovered somewhere above her, waiting.

The days that followed were practical in ways grief often isn’t. Paperwork. Phone calls. Decisions that needed signatures. Reza had prepared well—lists, passwords, notes written in his precise handwriting. Even in death, he had made things easier for her.

That hurt the most.

At night, the house felt wrong. Too large in some rooms, too small in others. She slept on her side of the bed out of habit, then drifted into the middle by morning, reaching for a warmth that was no longer there.

She was forty.

The number followed her like a shadow. Too young to be finished. Too old to start over without history. She had crossed into a life she had never imagined needing to learn.

One afternoon, three weeks after the funeral, Ifa opened her laptop and stared at a blank document.

Last Will and Testament of Ifa—

She stopped.

The cursor blinked patiently.

Writing her own will felt like admitting defeat, as if hope itself might be fragile enough to shatter under acknowledgement. But grief had taught her something vital: pretending did not protect you. Preparation was not surrender. It was kindness - to herself, to those who might one day have to make sense of what she left behind.

She began again.

She listed assets she had never thought of as worth listing. Savings. Investments. The house they had chosen together. She wrote instructions plainly, without sentiment. Practicality was easier than emotion.

Then came the harder parts.

She named beneficiaries. Her mother, her sisters, her nieces and nephews. In equal parts, and in it she added more clauses, in the event her mother was no longer, in the event if her sisters were no longer. 

She paused at the section about personal notes for beneficiaries.

There was no template for this.

She wrote slowly, deliberately.

I have loved deeply. I have been loved well. Thank you for all you have done for me.

The words surprised her with their steadiness.

She wrote about the life she had shared with Reza—not as a lament, but as a record. That happiness had existed. That it had been real and sufficient. That the absence of children did not mean absence of legacy.

“Our memories are my inheritance,” she typed, hands steady now. “And I am at peace with that.”

When she finished, she closed the laptop and sat back, exhausted but lighter. The will did not predict her death. It acknowledged her life.

Grief did not move in a straight line.

Some days she functioned with startling competence—answered emails, returned to work, rode her bike through familiar roads that felt both comforting and cruel. Other days, she couldn’t bring herself to move his mug from the sink.

She learned that love did not disappear when the person did.

It changed shape.

She carried Reza with her - in how she solved problems, in how she cooked without recipes, in how she listened more than she spoke. She heard his voice when she hesitated, reminding her gently to choose intention over fear. It would have been their 14th year being together.

On her forty-first birthday, she went for her little pilgrimage with her mother and her sister. They prayed, they hoped, they complained all they could to the Creator. They asked for ease, for divine blessings, abundance in goodness...

“We said we’d grow old together,” she said. “We didn’t say how long.”

The wind carried her words away.

That night, under a sky unburdened by expectation, Ifa understood something she had been circling for months: happiness was never a guarantee. It was a season. And she had lived hers fully. 

Widowhood did not erase her marriage.

It proved it had mattered.

In the years to come, if she stopped riding, she could always continue to drive instead. She will continue to travel, to see the world. Still plan, though differently now. She would age not alongside Reza, but because of him—shaped by a love that had taught her how to stand steady in uncertainty.

Her life was quieter. But it was not empty. 

And when the future finally came for her... As it comes for everyone, she knew this much with certainty:

She had loved. She had been loved. And that would remain.

Her future. Her hope.

/--- The End

Her Hope: Chapter 19

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 19: The final lapse

Palliative care entered their lives like an uninvited guest who stayed too long, lingering in every corner of their days. Forms were signed with trembling hands. Preferences documented in meticulous detail. DNR decisions made with clarity, but carried the weight of inevitability. Reza spoke first, voice steady despite the tremor in his fingers, and Ifa listened, filling in the thoughts he hadn’t thought to voice, the fears he hadn’t dared name.

They were still themselves—methodical, united—yet the shadow of mortality threaded itself through every action. Every whispered decision felt like a betrayal and a relief at the same time.

Time began to behave differently. Weeks bled into one another. Days shortened until they seemed almost imperceptible. Reza’s strength faded in visible increments, a slow erosion that left Ifa’s chest tight each morning when he struggled to rise from bed. His appetite vanished. Fevers returned with increasing ferocity, burning through him like a quiet, relentless fire. Even the sunlight seemed muted when it touched his skin.

While he battled his own body, the forty-day prayers for his late mother arrived quietly, as if time itself had chosen not to warn them. On that day, the world seemed both unbearably loud and impossibly hollow. Friends, neighbors, strangers—all witnesses to grief—noticed the new weight on Reza’s shoulders. And then they learned of his own diagnosis, of the invisible war he had been fighting alongside hers. The doctors revised timelines. Months became weeks, weeks became days that hung heavy and relentless.

His friends came to visit as often as they could. Every day he was surrounded by people he loved, people who asked questions he couldn’t always answer. Many asked why they had opted out of chemotherapy. Another hurdle, another battle that seemed almost cruel in its simplicity.

One night, awake long past midnight, Reza asked Ifa to remind him why they had chosen what they had. His voice was raw, tired, almost fragile. She climbed into the bed beside him, laying her head on his chest. He placed a trembling hand over her face, tracing her features with the gentlest care. Words were unnecessary at first; the silence carried all the love and regret and fear between them.

“I don’t know what I will do without you,” he whispered finally. “I was supposed to be the one caring for you, but here you are, taking care of me.”

Ifa’s tears flowed freely. She pressed herself closer to him, and they cried until exhaustion swallowed them whole. Each sob carried relief, grief, and a desperate tenderness that could not be named aloud.

A new kind of vigilance became her life. She memorized medication schedules like scripture, temperature thresholds like lines of poetry, breathing patterns like music she feared to forget. She slept lightly, always half-awake, attuned to every shallow inhalation, every twitch of muscle, every flicker of fevered skin. Nights were measured not in hours, but in checks, in quiet prayers, in small adjustments to prevent suffering.

Reza apologized too often. “For this,” he said once, gesturing vaguely at his frail body, voice thick with shame.

She stopped him gently. “You’re still you,” she said. Words fragile, yet insistent, carrying both comfort and defiance, "And I will always choose to love you."

They clung to routines where they could. Short walks down the hall. Sitting outside in the fading sunlight, letting the wind brush against them like permission to feel. Music played softly in the evenings, melodies folded into memories they visited not with sorrow, but with gratitude. Each laugh, each whispered recollection, each gentle brush of hands was a rebellion against the relentless march of illness.

One night, his fever spiked suddenly. Pain carved lines into his face he tried to hide, a mask he could no longer hold. Breaths came shallow and uneven, each one a battle fought silently. Ifa didn’t hesitate. She called for an ambulance, her voice tight but steady, her hand never leaving his.

As the sirens cut through the night, she held his hand in the back of the vehicle, her thumb tracing the same circle she had traced for years—a gesture that had become their unspoken language.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

Reza looked at her, eyes tired, glassy, but steady. “I know,” he whispered, and a small, fragile peace settled over them, even amidst the chaos.

The hospital lights swallowed them whole. Time—once generous, once full—began to narrow to moments. To breaths. To the weight of a touch, a glance, a whisper held fiercely. Love became the only constant, the only currency that mattered, even as everything else slipped away. Each second was fragile, precious, painful, and beautiful, and they clung to it with everything they had.

/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 18

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 18: Unravel

Death arrived from another direction first, catching them unprepared.

Ifa’s father died during an afternoon nap. No warning. No illness. One moment alive, the next unreachable. There was no buildup, no chance to rehearse grief. It entered their lives like a sudden shift in gravity—disorienting, absolute. Reza held Ifa through nights that felt unreal, when sleep came only in fragments and mornings felt heavier than the last. He stood beside her through rituals that blurred together—condolences repeated, prayers spoken by others, days measured by obligation rather than meaning. Together, they learned how fragile “normal” truly was, how easily a life could slip out of reach.

Years passed, and life reassembled itself around the absence.

Four years later, loss returned—this time slower, crueler. Reza’s father complained of stomach discomfort that was dismissed too quickly, misdiagnosed, treated as minor until it was no longer manageable. Complications multiplied in the hospital, each one stealing ground, until his body could no longer keep up. This grief landed differently. It carried anger. Questions with no use anymore. Almost simultaneously, Reza’s mother’s health began to deteriorate, each update another small erosion of certainty. The world felt less reliable now, its edges less forgiving.

In response, Reza turned toward care.

Health became his daily practice—not out of fear, but devotion. Every year, without exception, he booked his annual health check weeks ahead of schedule. He brought Ifa along for everything else: long walks around the park that stretched longer than planned, weekend cycling routes mapped and remapped for pleasure rather than endurance. They moved together, not to outrun anything, but to remain present inside their bodies. Health, to them, was shared time. Movement was conversation. Prevention felt like gratitude.

They trusted routine. It had never betrayed them.

Until it did.

It began as discomfort.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing urgent. A dull, persistent ache in Reza’s abdomen that came and went. He mentioned it casually, almost apologetically, like someone mildly inconvenienced by his own body.

“Probably something I ate,” he said, waving it away.

His yearly health check flagged something small. One measurement—just one—was one percent off the usual range.

“Probably nothing,” the doctor echoed, kindly, confidently.

But Reza had always been thorough. He had watched enough data over the years to know when something strayed from pattern. He asked for deeper tests, more clarity. Ifa accompanied him, notebook in hand, questions prepared but unasked unless needed. She trusted his instincts. He trusted her steadiness.

The results came back slower this time.

Cancer cells, they said. Along the lining of his intestines.

The word cancer entered their vocabulary without ceremony. No raised voices. No collapse. It settled between them like an object placed gently but irrevocably on the table. They asked questions. Took notes. Discussed options calmly, as they always had.

Surgery was recommended.

They agreed.

The operation was successful. The doctors were optimistic. Margins were clean. They used words like encouraging and promising. Reza healed quickly, walking hospital corridors with quiet determination, his IV pole trailing behind him. Ifa counted his steps, marked progress in small victories. For a while, they exhaled.

Then came the next checkup.

Something else appeared. Cells that didn’t belong. Patterns that suggested persistence rather than resolution.

Stage 3 colon cancer.

The room felt smaller. The air heavier. They held hands—not tightly, not desperately. Just enough to remind each other they were still here.

Chemotherapy was discussed.

They listened. Carefully. Respectfully.

Later, at home, they talked.

“I’ve seen what it does,” Reza said quietly. “How it takes more than it gives.”

Ifa nodded. She had seen it too—how treatment could stretch suffering without guaranteeing time.

“This isn’t about fear,” she said. “It’s about how we want to live.”

They decided against chemotherapy.

Not because they rejected medicine. Not because they denied reality. But because they chose presence over prolongation. Quality over quantity. Agency over fear.

And then—unexpectedly—they survived.

Three years passed.

Three years filled with intention. More trips taken without postponement. More laughter allowed to linger. More plans made without hesitation. They cycled further, camped longer, loved harder. Cancer existed—but it didn’t own their days.

Until the fourth year.

The change in Reza was sudden.

Fevers arrived without warning. Nights soaked in sweat. Pain that bent him forward, stealing breath. One evening, the pain sharpened into something undeniable, something that refused to be endured quietly.

A&E.
Hospitalization.
Scans.

This time, the diagnosis came without cushioning.

Stage 4.

Colon cancer, now joined by pancreatic cancer.

Aggressive. Advanced.

One year, they said. Maybe less.

The timing felt cruel. Almost simultaneously, Reza’s mother’s health continued to deteriorate, each update another reminder of how much could be lost at once. And then, before the weight of one diagnosis could even settle, she was gone. No pause. No space to brace themselves. Grief stacked upon grief, collapsing inward, unprocessed and unnamed. They went home quieter than before, carrying losses that had not yet found their shape.

They didn’t cry immediately. Shock has its own stillness. Yet even in that stillness, there was no break for mourning—no moment where sorrow could arrive gently. It simply existed, heavy and constant, breathing alongside them.

They made tea.

They sat.

They talked—not about miracles or bargaining, but about how to remain themselves inside what was coming. About care. About dignity. About love that did not need more time to be complete.

Always calmly.
Always together.

/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 17

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 17: Perfect

Their marriage was quiet in the ways that mattered.

Reza cooked.

Not occasionally, not as a gesture, but as a rhythm. Meals appeared without announcement - warm, considered, balanced. Ifa learned early that this was how he loved: through care made tangible. Through noticing when she was tired before she admitted it. Through remembering which spices reminded her of home and which ones she avoided on difficult days.

He supported her without keeping score.

Emotionally, he was steady. When she spiraled into doubt, he didn’t rush to fix her; he listened until the storm passed on its own. When work overwhelmed her, he reminded her of who she was before the deadline and who she would still be after. When fear resurfaced - quiet, irrational, old - he didn’t ask her to explain it away. He simply stayed.

Physically, he was present. Hands ready. Shoulders offered. Silence shared without discomfort.

Financially, they were a team. There was no hierarchy, no unspoken debt. When one earned more, it was theirs. When one earned less, it was still theirs. Decisions were made together, spreadsheets side by side, dreams penciled in at the margins.

Reza loved her parents as his own.

He showed up early. Stayed late. Listened more than he spoke. He fixed what needed fixing without announcing it and asked for advice when he didn’t know. Ifa watched her parents soften around him, watched her mother worry less, her father laugh more. It felt like a home expanding rather than rearranging.

They argued, but never to win.

Disagreements were approached like puzzles, not battles. They asked what went wrong instead of who. They backed each other up in public, always. Corrections happened privately, gently. Pride was never more important than peace.

To outsiders, it looked perfect. To them, it felt intentional. There were no children.

People assumed many things. That they hadn’t tried. That they were too focused on themselves. That there was a quiet sadness they didn’t speak of. The truth was heavier, and lighter, than that.

They tried. They went for fertility checks. They both had issues and would need intervention. They did go that route.

Three rounds of IVF. Each one beginning with cautious hope and ending in quiet grief. Hormones, appointments, waiting rooms that smelled like antiseptic and expectation. Each failure mourned privately, held between them like something fragile but not defining. 

Ifa wanted to go for the forth, but Reza couldn't bear to watch her taking the painful jabs and the grieving that follows. They went forth to go for adoption.

Three adoption attempts. Each one unraveling for reasons beyond their control - policy changes, sudden reversals. The most painful was that almost theirs. Ifa went on to lactate herself, she was producing her own milk after 6 weeks of pumping every 2hours round the clock. She was able to produce enough for a newborn when she held the baby. 3 nights the baby slept in their room. Just as both their hopes were beginning to see light, the biological mom decided it was too tough and wanted her baby back. They had no choice but to return the baby. That was their ultimatum. That grief was uncalled for.

They sat on the floor of their living room, backs against the couch, exhaustion settling into their bones.

“We can stop,” Reza said. Not with relief. With honesty.

Ifa nodded. “We can also be enough.”

And they were. Warm in each other's arms. They were indeed enough.

They filled their lives with movement and memory. Long rides through unfamiliar roads. Cycling trips that left their legs burning and their hearts light. Camping under skies that didn’t care about legacy, only presence. They learned new places together, got lost on purpose, returned home tired and content.

They built traditions that didn’t require inheritance—Sunday breakfasts, annual trips, small rituals only they understood. They planned to grow old together.

Holidays that involved extended families, they went to many places exploring food, activities, and everything together. Through their travels, they had conversations, deep ones.

They spoke of future knees that would ache, of slower rides, of mornings that would stretch longer. They joked about becoming that couple who argued about travel destinations and still held hands.

There were also nights, where they spoke of death, they willed their wealth to each other, they discussed about things they want to give to charity, things they want each other to hold on to and keep, things they would like to gift someone they know, things they want the surviving partner to continue doing, and things they hope for each other. They laughed and joked about it. Death seemed far away.

Their happiness was not loud. It was complete. And sometimes, late at night, Ifa would watch Reza asleep beside her and think—This is everything.

She didn’t know then how fragile “everything” could be, and how death can feel so far yet so close... 

/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 16

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 16: Invitations

Ali gathered everyone that Tuesday evening, and Ifa was among the last to arrive. She slipped between two chairs and settled among the boys seated across from him, greeted by familiar faces and half-finished conversations.

“Alright,” Ali said, grinning once everyone had settled. “I think that’s all of us. I’d like to hand out my invitations.”

Cream envelopes were passed around. Ifa accepted hers and opened it slowly.

The card was simple and tasteful—white with gold lettering, elegant without trying too hard. Ali’s name was printed beside a woman’s she didn’t recognize, the date set three months away. His mother’s influence, she thought—not with resentment, but understanding. It suited him. Everything about Ali always had.

What surprised her most was the absence of pain.

There was a small ache, yes—but not the collapse she had once imagined. Instead, there was something gentler. Closure, quietly delivered. Proof that some people entered your life not to stay, but to guide you safely back to yourself.

As the boys crowded around Ali with jokes and congratulations, a few lingered near her.

“So… you two were never together?” Bob whispered. “Or was it one of those—his mum didn’t like you kind of situations?”

Ifa only smiled and shook her head. She excused herself, citing an early meeting the next day.

That night, her MSN blinked.

You okay? You’ve been quiet.

Reza.

She paused, then typed: Got a wedding invite.

Yours? he replied, followed by a laughing emoji that softened the question.

Not mine. A friend’s.

Do you want a plus one?

The question lingered—simple, unforced.

Ifa stared at the screen. She thought of movement. Of choosing not to linger at the edge of something just because it felt unfamiliar.

Yes, she typed. If you’re willing.

---

The wedding was held at a community centre hall—soft lighting, white décor, the air thick with anticipation. Ifa wore a simple songket kurung she had kept tucked away in her wardrobe. Something that represented her culture. Her roots.

Reza met her at the entrance, dressed neatly in a crisp shirt and trousers, hair still slightly damp as if he’d rushed. He looked at her a second longer than necessary—not with appraisal, but recognition.

“You look… grounded,” he said.

She smiled. “So do you.”

They moved easily together, as if they’d rehearsed without knowing it. Reza pulled out her chair, offered to get her food. The gestures were natural, unforced—quietly chivalrous. She hadn’t expected this from him, yet it felt entirely like him.

As her thoughts drifted, she noticed a woman watching her.

Ali’s mother.

They had met once before—briefly, awkwardly. The same assessing look, the pause, the recalibration. But when Reza returned with food and placed her plate gently before her, settling beside her without hesitation, something shifted.

Ifa leaned toward him. “The woman behind, at two o’clock—that’s the groom’s mother.”

Reza glanced over, nodded politely—not submissive, not defensive—and continued the conversation with an ease that felt instinctive. He didn’t question. He didn’t judge. With him, Ifa felt safe enough to simply say things as they were.

When they were nearly done eating, Ali’s mother approached.

“So you’re Ifa,” she said, her tone measured. “The one who rides motorcycles.”

“Yes,” Ifa replied calmly.

“And you?” she turned to Reza.

“I ride with her,” he said. “Mostly, I make sure she gets home.”

It was such a simple sentence. No ownership. No control. Just partnership.

Something in the older woman’s expression softened.

Soon after, Ifa excused herself to leave. Reza sensed it immediately and followed her into the cab without a word.

“Hey,” Ifa murmured.

“Just making sure you get home,” he said with a smile—no questions asked.

He paid the fare, opened the door, and walked her to the lift lobby. There, they ran into her father.

“Eh, just got home?” her father asked as Ifa bent to kiss his hand. “Who’s this?”

Reza stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Reza. Just a friend. I walked her up to make sure she’s safe.”

Her father nodded. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

Reza smiled and waved goodbye.

That night, Ifa couldn’t quite name what she felt. Neither did her father ask anything more.

The spark ignited quietly—but it burned steadily.

---

A few days later, Ifa brought her parents out for lunch. As she placed their orders, she noticed someone approaching their table—followed by two others.

Reza.

With his parents.

She reached them just as Reza was introducing her. The moment felt effortless, almost familiar. This time, there were no assessing looks—only warmth and easy smiles. Conversation flowed naturally, unforced. As food began arriving at her table, Reza gently gestured for his parents to return to theirs, the exchange ending as smoothly as it had begun.

When Ifa and her parents finished their meal, she realized they would have to pass by Reza’s table on the way out. She offered a polite nod as they walked past. To her surprise, their parents stopped and began chatting. From a distance, Ifa and Reza exchanged amused, curious glances, silently wondering what was being said—unaware that something quietly significant had just begun.

Weeks unfolded differently after that.

Reza became a constant—not demanding, not overwhelming. He showed up. He remembered. He listened. He celebrated her work, admired her discipline, and respected her silences.

Their parents met again. This time, intentionally.

Tea was poured. Laughter followed. Questions were asked—not about her past, but about her plans.

And slowly, impossibly, the word wedding surfaced—not as pressure, but as possibility.

One evening, sitting at a café overlooking the park, Reza took her hand.

“No rush,” he said. “No expectations. But if movement is what keeps you alive… I’d like to move with you.”

The truth settled in her chest—not explosive, but certain.

Both families were supportive. His parents didn’t mind her divorce, her riding, her imperfections. Hers were simply grateful she was accepted as she was.

Reza spoke openly—about marriage, expectations, arrangements, the many what-ifs. He listened. He broke things down into manageable steps. Everything flowed, naturally.

For the first time, safety didn’t feel borrowed.

It felt chosen.

And somewhere between a wedding invitation that wasn’t hers and a future she hadn’t dared to imagine, Ifa realized—

Her own was already being written.

/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 15

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 15: Neutral Gear

Ifa arrived early.

She always did—whether to jobs, meetings, or moments that might matter. The café sat near the edge of the city, open-faced and loud with Saturday traffic. She parked her bike where she could see it clearly, helmet resting beside her on the table like a boundary she could cross or not.

Neutral ground, she reminded herself.

When he arrived, she recognized him instantly—not from memory, but from posture. Riders carried themselves differently. He removed his helmet slowly, respectfully, as if aware that first impressions could bruise.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”

No compliments. No assumptions.

They ordered coffee separately and paid separately, exactly as agreed. The conversation unfolded without urgency. He asked about the track, about bikes, about lines taken too tight or too wide. He listened more than he spoke, and when he spoke, it was with precision—as though words were tools, not weapons.

She relaxed without meaning to.

There was no probing into her past. No searching questions disguised as curiosity. Just the present, laid out between them.

“I like how you ride,” he said eventually. “Not reckless. Intentional.”

That word again.

Intentional.

She felt something settle—not spark, not ignite, but anchor.

They parted without promises. No follow-up texts demanding meaning. Just a simple, Ride safe.

In the days that followed, Ifa noticed how differently this connection behaved. It didn’t compete with her life; it fit alongside it. Messages came and went without expectation. Some days, none at all.

Ali remained in her orbit, unchanged, or so it seemed at first. He never asked about the café meeting. Never demanded clarity. He watched her rebuild with quiet pride, even as he accepted the distance she maintained.

She respected him deeply for that.

But constancy, she learned, could be deceptive. It did not mean immunity to change.

Gradually, Ali began to fray at the edges. The replies that once came easily started arriving late, sometimes not at all. He was always tired now—bone-tired, like someone carrying a weight he hadn’t named out loud yet. Work bled into evenings. Even weekends seemed to exhaust him. When they spoke, his laughter felt borrowed, his silences longer than comfortable.

And then there were the rants.

“My mother’s looking for a bride,” he said one night, voice threaded with a weary sort of disbelief. Not anger exactly—more resignation. “She’s already found someone she likes. Or thinks she likes.”

He spoke about the girl in fragments, as if saying too much might make her real. How she took up his time. How every conversation felt like an obligation dressed up as interest. How she was nothing like Ifa - said with no bitterness, just a quiet comparison he couldn’t stop himself from making.

Ifa listened. Always listening.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t claim space she had already stepped back from. Instead, she held her distance with the same care she’d used to rebuild herself.

“Maybe you should give it a chance,” she said gently, when he paused. “Sometimes what feels unfamiliar isn’t wrong. A girl your mother likes might be what’s best for you.”

The words surprised him. They surprised her too.

Ali fell quiet after that, the kind of quiet that wasn’t absence but reckoning. He hadn’t expected her to be so reasonable, so unselfish. Part of him had hoped, foolishly, that she would object. That she would ask him not to go. That she would make it harder.

But Ifa didn’t. She never did.

She watched as he became more unavailable, more caught between duty and desire, between the life unfolding in front of him and the one that had almost been. She saw how he changed—not dramatically, not all at once, but in the way tiredness settled into his bones, in how his presence became sporadic, in how even his rants began to thin out.

Ali was learning how to let go, just as she had.

And in that quiet, mutual unraveling, they remained connected, not by promises or proximity, but by a shared understanding: sometimes care means stepping aside, even when it hurts.

Her work grew busier. More projects stacked. Site meetings ran long. Her hands remembered purpose. Her mind stopped rehearsing exits.

One evening, as she locked up her bike, her phone buzzed.

Track this Sunday? Same time. No pressure.

She stared at the message longer than necessary.

Motion, she thought. Motion survives.

She typed back, Maybe.

And for the first time, maybe didn’t feel like avoidance. It felt like space.

/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 14

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 14: Safety Net

Ali never announced his protection. He didn’t need to. It lived in the small, deliberate things—the way he waited until she locked her helmet before starting his engine, the way his bike always positioned itself slightly behind hers at stoplights, like a shadow that chose to stay. Safety, with Ali, was never loud. It was steady, quiet, almost invisible—but that was what made it unmistakable.

Ifa noticed everything.

She noticed how he memorized her routes without asking, how he knew when to slow at corners, when to anticipate the traffic lights, how he texted “Home?” not to intrude, but to confirm. How he never pushed past her silences, only filled them when she asked. Somewhere along the way, safety stopped feeling like a fluke and began to feel like a pattern. That pattern was unsettling. That constancy made her uneasy because she hadn’t learned to trust calm. She had only learned to move.

That was what scared her.

Ali spoke of ordinary futures as if they were possible—weekends planned in advance, meals shared without urgency, a life that didn’t require constant scanning of exits. When he suggested they could be more than friends, his voice held no pressure. Only hope.

She declined him the first time gently. The second time with reasons. The third time with armor.

“You know your mum wouldn’t like me,” she said one evening, leaning against her bike after a ride that had gone longer than intended. “I’m divorced. I ride. I don’t even have a proper job right now.”

Ali didn’t argue immediately. That pause told her everything.

“She worries,” he admitted finally. “About… complications.”

Ifa smiled, because smiling was easier than saying I am tired of being complicated.

She gave him every excuse she could think of, stacking them neatly between them like bricks. Her life, she said, was unstable. Her focus had to be elsewhere. She couldn’t afford disappointment—not now, not again.

Ali persisted for a while, not with pressure but with presence. He lingered in the background of her life in ways she hadn’t noticed at first: the occasional text just to check she’d made it through the day, the subtle alignment of schedules, the small adjustments to accommodate her unpredictability without comment. It wasn’t dramatic or declarative—it was just… there. And that made her uneasy.

Yet in the quiet moments, when she thought no one was watching, she realized she had begun to depend on that quiet presence. The stability it offered, the feeling of being accounted for without obligation, was a strange comfort. She hadn’t felt it in years. It frightened her.

So she returned her focus to motion. Motion kept her alive.

She worked late shifts at the pizzeria, hands dusted white with flour, learning to read ovens by instinct. She stocked shelves at 7-11 during red-eye hours, when silence was louder than conversation. She rode whenever she could, the racetrack welcoming her like a secret, a place where no one asked questions—only respected speed and control. Tires hissed against asphalt, heartbeat thumped in her ears, and the wind laced her face with clarity. There, she didn’t have to be anything but herself.

And then, one evening, her MSN blinked.

Saw you at the track this morning! You are fast.

She stared at the message. The avatar meant nothing to her—a silhouette, anonymous and unassuming. Curiosity stirred. Who was this? Why now?

Thanks, she typed back.

The chat went quiet.

Then it happened again. A comment here. A remark there. Never invasive. Never demanding. Just… there. Watching, waiting. The subtle regularity of the messages created a tension that was not threatening but insistent. A sense of being observed, not scrutinized, but remembered. Suspicion mingled with a strange curiosity. She found herself checking her screen more often than she intended, wondering if she had missed a pattern, a hint of intent, a trace of familiarity she could not place.

She didn’t ask questions. Neither did he.

Around the same time, life shifted. She landed a job at a small local firm—nothing flashy, but honest. The directors spoke to her like an equal. She found herself drawing plans again, attending site meetings, measuring progress in something other than survival. The days began to take shape again, solidifying around small accomplishments and familiar routines.

Ali noticed. “You look lighter,” he said once, handing her coffee without asking how she took it.

She didn’t correct him. She didn’t explain that the weight hadn’t lifted—it had just been redistributed, stored in corners of her life she didn’t speak of.

And all the while, the MSN presence continued, subtle, deliberate. She tried to reconstruct it in her memory: when it had appeared, who it could be, whether it had always been there, watching from the periphery. Every time a message came through, her pulse skipped—not in fear, but in anticipation, in the quiet pull of a connection she didn’t yet understand.

When he finally asked if they could meet, Ifa surprised herself by agreeing. She set three simple conditions. First, a public space. Second, they would arrive separately—no pillion, no hitching rides, no shared cab. Third, they would go dutch.

He accepted without hesitation. That should have unsettled her. Instead, it grounded her.

/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 13

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 13: Followed

The incidents began to blur together.

At first, they were small enough to dismiss. Something that is easy to explain away if she tried hard enough. A missed call from an unknown number at dawn. A message that contained nothing but a single period. 

The worst incident came on a Friday. She had stayed late with her riding group, laughter spilling easily for the first time in weeks. For a moment, she forgot to look over her shoulder. Forgot to brace herself.

When she reached her bike, she froze.

Her side mirror had been turned inward, deliberately. On the fuel tank, etched lightly with something sharp, was a single word.

Still.

Her hands shook so badly she dropped her keys. That was when Ali noticed.

He had always been the quiet one in the group. Solid. Observant. The kind of man who listened more than he spoke, whose presence filled space without demanding it. He crouched beside the bike, jaw tightening as he took in the damage.

“This isn’t nothing,” he said calmly. “You shouldn’t go home alone tonight.”

“I’m fine,” she lied, too quickly.

He didn’t argue. He just said, “I’ll ride behind you.”

From that night on, he did. Sometimes they talked... About bikes, tracks, stupid work stories. Sometimes they rode in companionable silence. When they reached her block, Ali walked her to the lift lobby, standing just close enough that she could breathe easier without feeling crowded.

She began to wait for him without admitting it. The stalking did not stop.

A photo slipped under her door - her with the boys hanging out, taken from a distance. A voicemail of her name being muttered, over and over, until she deleted it with tears burning behind her eyes. Once, she swore she saw him across by a pillar as she entered 7-11, watching, smiling faintly, as if proud of how afraid she’d become.

Ali noticed the changes before she spoke of them. The way she flinched at sudden sounds. How she scanned reflections instead of faces. How she lingered longer at the lift doors, finger ready on the close button.

“You don’t have to carry this alone,” he said one night, as they waited for the lift together.

She looked at him then, really looked. At the concern in his eyes. The restraint. The way he never pushed, never pried. Something fragile stirred in her chest.

“I think he’s following me,” she admitted. Saying it out loud made it real in a way she hadn’t allowed before.

Ali exhaled slowly. “Who? Your ex? Then we go to the police. Together.”

The station felt empty yet busy. Ifa’s hands trembled as she laid out the evidence, all the messages, photos, the note, the etched word on her bike. Each piece felt heavier than the last.

The officer listened carefully, his nodding more intended as the pattern emerged.

“This qualifies as stalking,” he said. “Sadly, it is not considered a crime. But we can just take your statement and keep a record of this in case it escalates and become physical - then you can file a report for physical assault.”

A statement, oh well, better than nothing at all. Clearly insufficient, but something.

"You can apply for a Protection Order,” the officer continued. “This will legally prohibit him from contacting or approaching you.”

Ifa nodded, throat tight.

“You’re not alone in this,” he added gently. “And if he breaches the order, we act.”

Outside the station, the night felt different. Still dangerous. Still uncertain. But no longer invisible.

Ali walked beside her, not touching, yet close enough that she felt anchored.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I’d do it anyway.”

She believed him. As they reached her block, the lift doors opened immediately, bright and empty. For once, her heart didn’t leap into her throat. She turned to him, the words hovering between them—gratitude, trust, something warmer that neither of them was ready to name.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked.

Ali smiled. Just a little. “Yeah. Tomorrow, as usual at the usual place.”

The doors slid shut, carrying her upward. For the first time in weeks, hope slipped in alongside fear. And somewhere out there, a man who hated losing control was about to learn what limits felt like.

/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 12

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 12: The Return

Ifa had begun to recognize the sound of emptiness.

It lived in the lift lobby after ten at night, where she exhaled to end the day. She stood alone, helmet tucked under her arm, phone in her other hand, scrolling without really reading. She had learned not to look too expectant when waiting for lifts. Expectation made you vulnerable.

The indicator above the doors glowed orange. Descending. That was when she sensed it.

Not a sound at first—just a pressure, like the air had thickened. The instinct that had kept her upright through years of rebuilding stirred, sharp and sudden. She looked up.

He stood near the stairwell. For a second, her mind refused to cooperate. It offered alternatives. A stranger. A trick of memory. Someone who only looked like....

Then he stepped into the light. Older. Thinner. The arrogance that once filled his posture had collapsed inward, replaced by something hollow and coiled. His hair was cropped short now, uneven, his face sharper, eyes sunk too deep into their sockets.

But it was him. Her ex-husband. She looked at her phone, on the date. It read 10th May 2009. She had overlooked the period he would be...

Released.

Her breath stalled. Not fear, but shock. The kind that numbs before it cuts. He must have been out for a year, he found her.

“Ifa,” he said, softly. Like her name still belonged to him.

Her body moved before her thoughts caught up. She took a step back, fingers tightening around her phone. The lift indicator ticked downward, agonizingly slow.

“How did you..” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He smiled. Not the smile she remembered. This one was wrong. Too careful. Too practiced.

“I looked for you,” he said. “Sorry, it took this long. You were usually always predictable.”

The word landed like a bruise.

She glanced around. Empty. No footsteps. No voices. Just the loud silence and the quiet threat standing between her and the lift door.

“You need to leave,” she said. “Now.”

He took a step closer.

“I just wanted to talk,” he said. “I miss you. How is my baby?”

Her pulse thudded in her ears. The lift chimed somewhere above. She could feel the seconds slipping, stretching.

“Stay back,” she warned.

He didn’t.

The doors slid open behind her with a soft, merciless chime.

Ifa moved. She quickly stepped into the lift and slammed her thumb against the Close Door button—once, twice, again, again! Her heartbeat syncing with the frantic motion. The doors hesitated, as lifts always did, as if deciding whether to betray her.

He lunged.

Her breath caught as his hand hit the gap, fingers brushing metal, but the doors continued closing. His face twisted—not in pain, but in fury—as the gap narrowed. The doors shut. The lift ascended. Ifa slumped against the wall, lungs burning, knees weak. Her hands trembling, her mind everywhere...

She didn’t cry. Crying came later. That night, she barely slept. Every sound outside her apartment made her sit upright, heart racing. She checked the locks twice. Then three times. Then again before dawn.

The next morning, there was a message on her phone.

Unknown Number:
So, now you ride a bike, huh?

Her fingers went cold.

She blocked the number.

Another message came an hour later. Different number.

Saw you leave this morning. You look tired. 

She changed her routine. Took different routes. Rode only in daylight. Stayed in crowded places longer than necessary. She told herself she was being cautious, not afraid.

But fear has a way of leaking through logic. She began to notice things. A man across the street, head lowered beneath a cap. A reflection in a shop window that lingered too long. Footsteps behind her that stopped when she did. Sometimes she convinced herself she was imagining it.

Sometimes she wasn’t. One evening, she returned to her bike to find something tucked beneath the seat. A folded piece of paper. Her name, written in his handwriting.

We’re not done, I will be watching you.

Ifa stood very still, the world narrowing around her. Traffic roared past, indifferent. People moved, laughed, lived. And somewhere nearby, he was watching. She looked up slowly, scanning the street.

Nothing.

But the silence felt deliberate now. Calculated. She slid the note into her pocket, mounted her bike, and rode off - faster than she should have, heart pounding, mind racing. For the first time since losing her job, she wasn’t afraid of stillness. She was afraid of being seen. And she knew, with chilling certainty, that this was only the beginning.

/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 11

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 11: Career

Ifa learned early that stillness was dangerous.

Idle minutes stretched into memories she didn’t want to revisit, so she packed her days tight, like bricks laid end to end with no space for cracks. Interviews filled her mornings—formal blouses, polite smiles, rehearsed confidence, and when the afternoons came with no calls, no emails, she tied on a different uniform and reported to the 7-11 down the street.

Ifa liked that job. She stocked shelves, rang up cigarettes and instant noodles, nodded at strangers who didn’t ask questions. In between customers, she stood behind the counter and reminded herself this was temporary. Everything was temporary.

Weeks passed like that. Interview, rejection, silence... Until one afternoon, she checked her email through her computer before she went to work for her shift. Structural Technician. The words felt unreal at first, like she was reading someone else’s email. She read it twice, then a third time, before allowing herself to smile. Not wide. Not yet. Just enough.

The job gave her more than a salary. It gave her direction. She learned how steel bore weight, how calculations translated into buildings that stood because someone had done the math right. There was comfort in that logic, in knowing that if you followed the rules, things held together.

Purpose crept back into her life quietly. She began planning again, not for anyone else, just for herself. Nights once spent staring at the ceiling were replaced with course catalogs and application forms. Management degree. Part-time. Challenging. Necessary.

Soon her days ran on a schedule that left no room for drifting. Work from nine to six. Classes from seven to ten. She ate dinner out of containers, studied on crowded buses, memorized concepts while half-asleep. Exhaustion became a constant companion, but it was better than emptiness.

She told herself she was fine. And mostly, she was.

There were moments - standing at a red light, washing dishes, lying awake at night - when something old stirred beneath the surface. A memory. A name she didn’t say. She learned to redirect quickly, the way one corrects a skid before it becomes a crash.

A year passed that way. She graduated with second upper class honours, the certificate heavier in her hands than she expected. It wasn’t just paper. It was proof. She had survived herself.

After that, she leaned into growth with an almost aggressive determination. Networking events. Seminars. Coffee meetings. She collected business cards like talismans, convinced that staying in motion was the only way forward.

Then came the licenses. Riding first. Then driving. Riding however was what truly interest her and got her heart.

The motorcycle was reckless, some said. Too expensive. Too loud. Too fast. Ifa didn’t argue. She took a loan, signed the papers, and brought the bike home anyway. It was sleek and unapologetic, the kind of machine that demanded attention and respect. The first time she rode it, wind tore past her helmet, and for the first time in years, her thoughts went completely silent.

On the road, there was no room for the past. No space for doubt. Just throttle, balance, and the immediate present.

She trained harder. Faster. Found herself at the racetrack one weekend, then another. Timing her laps. Shaving seconds. Chasing a feeling she couldn’t quite name. Freedom, maybe. Control. Or simply the relief of not being anyone’s version of who she should be.

Through riding, she found people - others drawn to speed and night roads. They gathered after rides, helmets on tables, drinks sweating under neon lights. Laughter spilled into early mornings. Stories grew louder, bolder. Ifa didn’t talk much about herself, but no one pressed. She was one of them boys. Her presence alone seemed to be enough for these new friends she made.

For a while, life felt balanced. Busy, loud, full. She had work, friends, ambition, and a machine that carried her forward whenever she needed to escape.

Then the economy shifted.

The word “recession” began appearing in emails, in meetings, in cautious conversations that ended too quickly. Projects stalled. Budgets tightened. One morning, Ifa was called into a room she’d never been in before, sat across from faces from various departments, including her superior. She knew this wasn't going to be good news, then a paper slide to her hands.

Retrenched.

The word landed harder than she expected. Not because she hadn’t prepared for setbacks - she always had - but because she’d believed momentum would protect her. That as long as she kept moving, nothing could catch up.

Suddenly, there were no nine-to-six hours. No meetings. No classes to rush to. Just silence again, creeping in at the edges. Bills didn’t pause for grief or shock. The loan payments. Insurance. Fuel. The lifestyle she’d built in self-defense now demanded to be maintained.

Ifa stood in her apartment one evening, helmet resting on the table, degree certificate framed on the wall, phone silent in her hand. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what the next step was. She wasn't going to tell her parents, for she didn't want to worry them.

Stillness loomed.

And she wondered—briefly, dangerously - whether motion alone was enough to save her.

//--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 10

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 10: The change

The first weeks after the airport felt like borrowed time. Jacob asked her to be his girlfriend that following day.

Jacob was attentive, giving her a lot of attention - good morning texts, late-night calls, small reassurances threaded into every conversation. He apologized in ways that felt sincere, promised transparency, promised that there would be no more surprises. Ifa wanted to believe him. After everything they had went through.

Every trip back to San Diego was followed by constant email check-ins and lots of Skype time. Every travel he had to make for his work, he would try squeeze a transit over in Singapore so they can meet.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, something shifted.

At first it was the pauses. Jacob took longer to respond, his replies shorter, stripped of the warmth that once made her smile at her phone. Their calls, once effortless and winding, began to feel scheduled, like obligations squeezed between meetings. When she asked about his day, he gave summaries instead of stories.

“I’m just busy,” he said whenever she noticed. “Work’s insane right now.”

Ifa nodded, even when doubt tugged at her chest. She told herself distance was normal. Afterall, he traveled constantly, living in time zones that never quite aligned with hers. Love, she reasoned, could stretch.

Then came the cancellations.

“I won’t be able to Skype tonight,” he texted one evening. “Something came up.”

“What kind of something?” she asked.

“A work dinner,” he replied. “Clients.”

She watched the typing bubble disappear before she could ask more.

When they did speak, Jacob no longer asked about her future plans. He stopped using the word we. The tenderness in his voice dulled, replaced by a careful neutrality that felt worse than anger. It was as if he were slowly packing up parts of himself, leaving the relationship piece by piece without ever saying goodbye.

One night, unable to sleep, Ifa scrolled through old messages, clinging to proof that she hadn’t imagined what they’d shared. That’s when she noticed something she’d missed before - a tagged photo on Jacob’s colleague’s social media. It was from a conference in Bangkok.

Jacob stood in the center, smiling politely, arm loosely around a woman Ifa had never seen before. She was beautiful in a quiet way, her head tilted slightly toward him, as though she belonged there.

The caption read: “To new beginnings 🥂”

Ifa’s pulse quickened.

She told herself not to jump to conclusions. But curiosity, once sparked, is hard to extinguish. She clicked the woman’s profile. Public. Too public.

Her name was Lina.

Scrolling felt like falling. Photos of temples, sunsets, street markets—then Jacob again, this time more recent. His smile was different. Softer. Intimate. In one photo, Lina’s hand rested on his chest.

The caption beneath it made Ifa’s vision blur.

“Grateful for the unexpected love that found me this year.”

Her hands shook as she kept scrolling, dread settling deep in her bones. Then she saw it—the engagement ring, gleaming against Lina’s fingers.

“Counting down to forever. 2008.”

Ifa stared at the date. Next year.

Her chest felt hollow, like something vital had been removed without anesthesia. She checked the timestamp again, hoping she’d misread it. She hadn’t.

Jacob was getting married.

Not someday. Not hypothetically.

Next year.

To a woman he’d met on a business trip in Thailand.

The cruelty of it wasn’t just the betrayal—it was the timing. While he’d been reassuring Ifa, apologizing, rebuilding trust, he had been laying the foundation of another life.

She called him immediately.

He didn’t answer.

She called again. Voicemail.

Her message was calm only because shock had numbed her. “I know about Lina. Call me.”

An hour passed. Then two.

Finally, her phone rang.

“Ifa,” Jacob said, voice tense. Not relieved. Not loving. Tense.

“How long?” she asked, skipping everything else.

A pause. “A few months.”

A few months. Right after the airport. Right after he made her his girlfriend.

“And the wedding?” Her voice cracked despite her effort.

“Next year,” he said quietly.

“You met her on a business trip,” Ifa said, more statement than question.

“Yes.”

She laughed then—a sharp, broken sound. “So what was I, Jacob? A habit you hadn’t broken yet?”

“That’s not fair,” he snapped, irritation flaring for the first time. “Things were complicated.”

“They were only complicated because you made them that way.”

Silence pressed between them.

“I didn’t plan for this,” he said finally. “It just… happened.”

“It always does,” Ifa replied. “To the person who’s already keeping secrets.”

He exhaled sharply. “Lina makes sense for my life. She’s here. She understands my world.”

“And I didn’t?” Ifa asked softly.

“You wanted more than I could give,” he said, distancing himself with every word. “She doesn’t ask me to be someone else.”

The words landed like a final betrayal. Not just that he’d chosen someone else—but that he’d rewritten their story to justify it.

“So you were just going to fade out?” Ifa asked. “Let me disappear without the truth?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You don’t get credit for avoiding guilt,” she said. “Only for honesty.”

He had none left to offer.

When the call ended, Ifa sat in the quiet, grief washing over her in waves. Not just for Jacob, but for the version of herself who had believed love, again, after a betrayal he knew of.

This time, there was no misunderstanding. No twist to save her.

Just the cold clarity that some people don’t leave all at once.

They leave slowly—until one day, you realize you were never standing on solid ground at all. Was this what people call fate?

//--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)

Her Hope: Chapter 9

Assalammu'alaikum family, friends, readers and followers of this blog.

Are you from the previous entry, waiting for the next chapter? Well here goes...

Story title: Her Hope

Chapter 9: Jacob Who?

Soon it was the day Jacob landed. Ifa stood at the edge of the arrival hall, fingers clenched around her phone, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and excitement. She hadn’t told him she’d be here. After months of back and forth of emails after emails of updates, she wanted to just be the surprise that grounded him after the long flight.

What unfolded before her eyes was nothing like what she had imagined.

A woman with a stroller stepped forward just as Jacob emerged through the sliding doors. He froze for half a second, then his face broke into the widest smile Ifa had ever seen. Not the soft, private smile he gave her through a screen, but something unguarded and radiant. He crossed the distance in long strides, immediately crouching to unbuckle the child from the stroller. He lifted the toddler into his arms, kissing chubby cheeks, laughing as the child squealed and grabbed at his face. The woman laughed too, touching his arm with an ease that suggested habit.

Ifa’s chest tightened.

He can’t be married, can he? He would have told her—wouldn’t he? She replayed their conversations in her head: his frequent pauses when she asked about him, his family. Did he hide his family? 

Her phone buzzed in her hand as if urging her to act. She dialed his number, eyes never leaving him. Almost immediately, she saw him reach into his pocket. He glanced at the screen. For a split second, their eyes met across the crowded terminal.

Then he declined the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

The world tilted.

Ifa felt heat rush to her face, humiliation and disbelief tangling together. She stepped back, blending into the stream of travelers, afraid that if she stayed still she might shatter. Jacob lifted the child higher, spinning once, the woman’s laughter following them like a private melody. They looked like a family. A complete one.

She turned and walked away.

Outside, the air was sharp with jet fuel and rain. Ifa leaned against a pillar, trying to breathe through the ache in her chest. Her phone vibrated again—this time a message.

Jacob: I can explain. Wait there.

Her fingers trembled. Explain what? A wife? A child? 

Before she could decide whether to reply, she heard footsteps. She looked up, ready to unleash months of restrained questions—but it wasn’t Jacob.

It was the woman.

Up close, she looked tired, eyes shadowed but kind. The stroller was empty now. “You’re Ifa, right?” she asked gently.

Ifa stiffened. “Who are you?”

“My name is Maira.” She hesitated, then sighed. “Jacob saw you. He panicked. He asked me to come talk to you before he does.”

That only deepened the knot in Ifa’s stomach. “So he sends his wife?”

Maira flinched. “I’m not his wife.”

Silence stretched between them.

“The child?” Ifa asked.

“Not his either,” Maira said quickly. “He’s my nephew. My sister, our sister, died last year. I help take care of him and just flew in too to catch up and meet Jacob.”

Ifa blinked, her thoughts scrambling to catch up. “Then why, why did he...”

“Because Jacob is a coward when it comes to hurting people,” Maira said softly. “Especially you.”

Before Ifa could respond, Jacob appeared.“Ifa,” he said, voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

She crossed her arms. “Tell me what? About your family?”

“No,” he said firmly. “That I have a past I’m ashamed of.”

He glanced at Maira, who nodded and stepped back a few paces.

“My sister died because of me,” Jacob continued, words spilling out now. “Drunk driver. It was my car. I wasn’t driving, but I gave her the keys. Ever since, I’ve been helping raise her son. Maira and I—people assume things. I let them.”

“Why?” Ifa whispered.

“Because it was easier than explaining,” he admitted. “Easier than telling you that I was afraid you’d see me as broken. That you’d not even consider being around me.”

Ifa felt tears sting her eyes - not just from relief, but from anger. “So if I don't see you here,  you'd just not tell me? You'd just let me think...”

“I know,” he said. “And I hate myself for it.”

She studied his face, searching for deception, but found only fear and remorse. The image from the terminal replayed in her mind, now reframed: not betrayal, but grief - maybe love?

“I declined your call because I didn’t want you to hear this from across a terminal,” he said quietly. “I wanted to tell you in person.”

The rain began to fall harder, drumming against the pavement. Ifa exhaled slowly.

“You don’t get to decide what hurts me,” she said. “But… let's start over. You can tell me anything like how I told you everything.”

Jacob nodded, eyes shining. “Everything,” he repeated.

As they stood there, suspended between what almost broke them and what might still be possible, Ifa realized the true twist wasn’t what she’d seen—but what she’d almost walked away from. Could Jacob really be the one? Would this feeling she felt be mutual?

//--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)