Chapter 5
I have never regretted.
Only sometimes, when memories return, my heart aches, and I find myself wondering — why was I tested this way?
That night — February 14th — my home transformed into something magical. Bada played the most important role, orchestrating every detail with precision and flair. She was the wedding planner, decorator, caterer — everything. I trusted her completely, giving her full control.
And, as always, Bada never disappointed.
Everything unfolded exactly as planned. My home looked like a palace, draped in fresh flowers and glimmering lights of every hue.
By eight that evening, I was already dressed.
In the mirror stood a version of me I could hardly recognize — draped in a white lace gown that Syed Ikram had bought from Paris. My chest tightened with a storm of joy and sadness.
“Don’t waste your tears on such a beautiful night,” Bada said softly, still fussing over the arch of my eyebrows. She was determined to give me brows as perfectly curved as her idol, Ziana Zain.
“I can’t help it, Bad… I’m sad.”
“Sad? What for? Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for? Tonight, you and Syed Ikram will finally be united.”
“But what if this decision I’m making… doesn’t last forever?” I asked, my voice trembling with doubt I dared not name.
“That’s not for you to worry about,” Bada replied meaningfully. “Forever or not — what matters is that you chose each other. You both made this decision. And let’s be real — people like us rarely get forever. But as your best friend, I just want you to be happy — right now, in this moment. Let tomorrow take care of itself.”
I understood her perfectly. But still, the fear lingered. “You know I’ve never had anything like this before, Bad. I’ve never been anyone’s… ‘wife’. What if I can’t be the right one for him? What if he stops loving me?”
“Brian, listen to me.” Bada turned to face me, her voice firm but kind. “Every couple has their storms and sunshine. You’ll be fine. You have the heart for it — that’s all that matters.”
“I just—”
“No more overthinking,” she cut in. “Enjoy tonight. That’s all I want you to do. I’ll keep praying that you and Syed Ikram stay happy, no matter what happens.”
Deep down, I knew she was right. Whether she said it or not, I understood — love like mine rarely lasts. People like me don’t get fairy tales that go on forever.
But even so, I couldn’t stop hoping. Hoping that maybe — just this once — happiness would stay.
After one last touch to my makeup, Bada finally stepped back, admiring her work. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction. Maybe, in some way, it was her dream too — to see me radiant, loved, and finally at peace.
When she left, I was alone again. Sitting before the mirror, a strange nostalgia crept in. My reflection reminded me of my mother — her face, her eyes. I wondered if she looked this beautiful when she married my father.
She was the only one I told about the ceremony.
Not the full truth, of course. I told her it was just a celebration — to introduce a “new friend.” Somehow, I wanted her to know, even if I couldn’t explain why.
To be honest, I had always respected her more than my father.
Mother accepted me with an open heart. Though I knew she was disappointed that I hadn’t grown into the “man” she’d hoped for, she never cast me aside. Her only warning was always gentle: “Don’t go too far, son.”
I knew exactly what she meant by too far.
Her words still echo in me:
“If you can’t do every good thing, at least try to do some.
And if even that is too much, then never stop striving to be kind.”
My father, on the other hand, was a storm of anger and insult. I loved him — but his cruelty left scars no words could heal.
Between Mother’s patience and Father’s rejection, I lived in constant conflict. I wanted to love them both, but his harshness drove me away.
“Your father doesn’t hate you, Bahrin,” Mother always said, using my birth name. “He loves all his children. Don’t hold anger in your heart. Give him time. Pray for him. Allah will soften his heart.”
“I don’t hate him, Mother,” I would reply, eyes heavy with tears. “I’m just… sad. He treats me like I’m not even his son. He loves the others openly — but me? I’m invisible.”
Mother would sigh and shake her head. “He’s struggling too, Bahrin. He doesn’t show love the way others do. Deep down, he still cares. Trust me.”
Her voice was my anchor.
Her faith, my only light.
“Allah tests those He loves,” she would remind me as we cooked together. “Even the prophets faced greater trials. Never think you’re forgotten.”
Her words soothed me every time. We were close, more than any of my siblings. My quiet evenings belonged to her — laughter in the kitchen, long talks that made the world bearable.
“But Mother,” I’d sigh, “I’m tired of being tested this way…”
She’d smile sadly. “Then let me be your strength, my child. As long as I’m here, you’ll never face it alone.”
That was Mother — endlessly gentle, endlessly forgiving. She never complained about what fate handed her. She believed that every storm had its reason.
And for her sake, I learned to believe too.
“Do you still feel any resentment toward your father?” the interviewer asked. Her voice was soft, cautious — as if afraid to reopen old wounds.
Brian — or me — smiled faintly. “How could I? He’s my father. No matter what happened, I can’t hate him forever. Time changed a lot of things. I understand now why he did what he did. He was scared — and lost.”
“How did he find out about you? Or, as you might say… when did you ‘get caught’?”
Brian chuckled at the phrase. “Ah, pecah lubang,” he said, using the slang from our world. “My fault, really. I wasn’t careful. My father was quiet, but he noticed everything. The way I spoke, the way I moved — he saw the change.”
“So, you weren’t always… gentle?”
He laughed softly. “No. Not at all. When I was younger, I was just like any other boy — loud, mischievous, rough around the edges. The softness came later, as I grew more comfortable with who I was.”
“Was there ever a girl? A crush, maybe?”
“There was,” he said after a pause. “A neighbor — Ana. We were classmates. She was sweet. My friends used to tease us, saying we’d end up together. Maybe they weren’t wrong, then.”
“Did she know you liked her?”
“She did. But it was just puppy love. She moved away, and that was that. After that, my time was filled with Tuan Khairil. He kept me busy — long hours, endless tasks. Then came Kak Som. She changed everything.”
He smiled at the memory. “She taught me the art of beauty. Makeup, skincare, colors — I started with her face, then her clients’, and eventually, my own. I realized I had a gift. That’s how I became this — softer, yes, but stronger too.”
“Do you regret it?” I asked.
“Never,” he said, his eyes distant. “My past made me who I am. Every struggle, every tear, every lesson — they built me. I have never regretted. Only sometimes, when I remember, I still wonder… why me?”
I watched him fall silent, eyes glazed with memory. I excused myself to step outside for air. The drizzle hadn’t stopped. The night was cold, calm — strangely comforting.
That night — the night everything broke — is burned into my memory.
I was packing to return to my boarding school after the holidays. My father — whether by chance or intent — opened my bag.
He found them.
The eyeliner. The mascara. The foundation. The lipstick. The razors.
I came out of the bathroom to find him holding them, his face twisted in fury.
He exploded.
He threw everything at me — the makeup scattering across the floor like broken dreams. He shouted, cursed, hit me. His fists rained down like thunder.
Mother tried to stop him.
He turned on her instead.
He kicked her, shouting that she was to blame — for giving birth to a “defect.” She crumpled to the ground, sobbing.
Something in me snapped.
I lunged forward, grabbing his leg before he could strike her again. I pushed him back — hard. He fell, eyes blazing with shock and disbelief.
For the first time in my life, I stood up to him.
“This is my life,” I shouted. “Whether you accept it or not, this is who I am. Don’t blame Mother. Don’t blame anyone. This is my path — my choice.”
“You’re sick!” he roared. “You were born perfect — just like every man in my family!”
“Maybe I was,” I said, trembling but resolute. “But this isn’t about the body I was born with. It’s about my heart — and this heart isn’t like yours.”
“You’ve lost your mind!”
“No, Father. I’ve finally found it. I know what I am.”
“Repent, Bahrin! You’re a man!”
“I was born one, yes. But inside, I’ve always been a woman. That’s the truth you refuse to see.”
“I will never accept it,” he spat. “I’d rather see you dead than bring shame to this family.”
He staggered to his feet, stumbled toward the kitchen. When he returned, a parang gleamed in his hand.
Mother screamed.
My siblings ran and hid.
He charged toward me.
I closed my eyes.
“If death is what you want, then so be it,” I said quietly. “But know this — even if you kill me, nothing can change what I feel. I need a man’s love, and that truth will die with me.”
Then I heard it — my mother’s scream, sharp and desperate — just as he swung the blade.
