Chapter 4: Home Sweet as Sugar

She keeps everything.
Not because she’s sentimental but because memories matter.

There are yellowed recipes clipped from condensed milk tins circa 1989, tucked inside old cookbooks. Puddings she meant to make but never quite got around to. An old birthday card, something about “Sugar & Spice and all things nice.” doubling as a bookmark. A tin of single gold hoops on the nightstand long separated from their mates, like lost souls still hoping for reunion. Sometimes she wears mismatched pairs. Borrowed family. Odd, but whole.

The house is more than bricks, windows, wood, and doors.
It’s sweetness and steel.
Love and loss.
Togetherness and solitude.
The kind of home you carry in your chest, long after the postcode changes.

These days, home is in an old Malaysian neighbourhood, far from her roots. The apartment sits near a field where men gather in droves — tugging, laughing, sipping sugary drinks at sunrise or in the deep red hush of sunset.

And she wonders:
Where are the women in their lives?
Do they get to run bare feet on morning dew?
Do they get to sip green tea slowly while the sun sets?

In her home, the rituals are quieter.
It’s slow mornings. Hot lemon drinks. Steaming mugs of coffee at 4 a.m. before he stirs.
It’s enjoying the silhouette of him. Stroking his arm. Whispering,
“I like being with you when you’re asleep.”

He grins — because he knows he’s a chatterbox, and she loves silence.
He flutters one eye open like a wink, and she is glad of him.

At the centre of this home is a long table solid, warm that holds the whispers of many conversations.

First: school admin.
Then: grandbabies, and travels.
Later: the harder things: the loss of a parent, a sister’s illness.
And always, the things women aren’t supposed to say aloud but do, here.
Menopause. Lost desire. Regret.
Here, you can name it, release it and let the wind carry it off for a while.

 In this sweet, sweet house, you’ll find:

– An AMC slow cooker brewing soup, hissing secrets of gatherings past
– A jar of cardamom pods, bay leaves, and loose rooibos for deep thinking
– A gallery wall of laughter caught in black-and-white photos
– And notebooks — so many notebooks. Some bursting, others waiting.

Margins hold meaning.

To-do lists whisper, “Write something beautiful.”
Sticky notes from other women read: “For you, my love.”

She is the quiet archivist of unruly, glorious, everyday lives.
And every week, someone stops by 
with cake, or chocolate, or a question like:
“Do you think it’s too late to start over?”

And the answer here is always some version of:
It’s never too late.

Start with tea.                                                                                                  
Add something heartwarming.

 They say the change will come softly...

In rooms like this.
In homes where women remind each other who they are.
In rituals that look like nothing, but are in truth, spells:
– A candle lit for courage.
– A hug that lasts long enough.
– A shared dress, a shared memory.
– Dhal curry and naan with honesty on the side.

Big shifts begin here.
Not in headlines.
But in living rooms scented with lavender and leftovers.
Not in speeches.
But in the whispered truth:
“You deserve better.”

 Yes, she still dances.

And now, when the girls drop in grown daughters, old neighbours, road-trip rebels with reading glasses, she makes the same tea, serves the same warmth, smiles and says:

“Welcome. Make yourself at home.”

Then presses hugs and kisses, cardamom-sweet and sure as truth and says:
“Now… tell me everything.”