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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. :)
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