There has always been turbulence between my family and me. Some people say this is normal and that I should accept the fate of coming from a broken family. I refuse to believe that. To come from a broken family, one must first have a family and then lose it. I still have mine.
Growing up, my family consisted of my mother, my brother, and my sister. We came from different fathers, but we were one. Losing a parent to death does not make us broken—it makes us orphans. Yet I learned, painfully, that sharing blood, maternal or paternal, does not always make people family.
Despite everything, I still hoped—perhaps foolishly—that one of them might acknowledge what I had done, especially considering how young I was at the time. I was the one who convinced my mother to take them back after they repeatedly dragged her to court under false accusations of child abuse, staining both her name and the family’s reputation. I was also the one who lied to protect them when their own actions threatened exposure. All of it came from loyalty. All of it was taken for granted.
To them, generosity was entitlement. Wisdom was disposable. Fear governed one, insecurity ruled another, and together they twisted faith to suit their greed—discarding what no longer served them and rewriting their own moral code.
When my uncle passed away on November 1st, his family asked me to stay with them for a few days. Those days turned into weeks. While moving between homes, I received a letter from PERKESO addressed to my late mother, stating that money was owed due to pension overpayment after her death. I settled the amount using my own pension—one I had not even known I was entitled to.
When I eventually returned home, I was appalled. The house had deteriorated into something unrecognisable. Rats and mice had multiplied, maggots crawled over dishes left on the dining table, and clean laundry sat alongside piles of junk in the hallway. There was no longer any distinction between living space and decay.
I video-called the eldest sibling. She saw everything and instructed me to document the state of the house for the second sibling. I did as asked. After that, all discussions continued without me.
Around that time, Nana was due to be discharged from the hospital, having been warded in the psychiatric unit. It seemed only fair that someone who already had a house—especially one who claimed to have two—should make space for someone who had none. The eldest sibling suggested that I push the idea of letting Nana stay in the house, as she herself was “having difficulty telling him and his clan to vacate Mum’s place for a few days.” Once again, I became the messenger.
What followed was swift and violent.
The night before New Year’s Eve, I was attacked in my own bedroom because he refused to leave the house. Earlier that afternoon, Teha had called me to explain what she called “the plan,” asking me to take photos of the gate because they intended to throw out damaged items. Later that evening, she called again, telling me that a lawyer known as Ned would speak gently to Zakry about signing papers to appoint him as the second administrator of our mother’s estate.
During that conversation, the lawyer—nervous and careless—told Zakry that the family feared he was trying to take over the house, especially since his family of six was already living there. Zakry erupted. He called the eldest sibling, who quoted me.
That was the moment everything collapsed.
I realised I was about to be thrown out, so I acted quickly. I used both my phone and my iPad to record audio, hiding the iPad first in the closet, then under the bed. Not long after, he stormed into my room, forcing the steel security gate open with rage. He cornered me, yelling, shouting, belittling me. He left, then returned, repeating the same abuse. Had there not been witnesses listening on the phone, I believe he would have beaten me. He ordered me to leave the house.
The eldest sibling heard everything. After the call ended, she contacted Teha.
At 10:28 p.m., Teha called me. She said, “No one knows I’m calling you right now. I just called because I love you.” She warned that Zakry would come back to kill me and told me to keep the money she had given for Nana’s diapers and use it to pay for a night at a hotel. I sat on the goose-feather Da Vinci sofa I had bought for my mother’s 60th birthday and quietly ate a bowl of cut mangoes.
The next morning, on my way to my first driving class, Teha called again, asking whether I had found a room because she wanted to meet me. Something felt wrong, but I booked a room at the Sheraton Petaling Jaya anyway. It was apparently too bold a choice for someone who had just been chased out of his own home. The eldest sibling wanted to help; Teha wanted attention.
I made the mistake of messaging the eldest sibling, suggesting they both meet me at the hotel. I assumed she understood the gravity of the situation. She did not.
After class, I went to the police station. I played the recordings and showed the photos. Some officers recognised the address and were visibly shocked. The house that once belonged to a glamorous journalist had become uninhabitable. I gave my statement but chose to withhold certain details about Zakry. Not out of fear, but pity—for him and his children. I had the power to escalate. I chose not to.
I returned briefly to pack what I could carry and then went to the hotel.
When they arrived, the eldest sibling looked sour. Teha behaved like a saint, forcing gestures of affection. I gave the eldest sibling a pair of jade and diamond earrings to congratulate her on her marriage. Noticing Teha watching, I gave her daughter a pair of pearl earrings I had originally bought for my god-sister.
Then she asked, in front of everyone, why I was staying at a hotel.
She attempted to silence me with RM100, assuming I had no proof. I showed her the WhatsApp call log from the night before. She panicked and claimed she had only advised me to stay one night. I asked what would have happened after that. She begged to change the subject.
At dinner, she attempted to say something about me to her new Kelantanese husband. Before he could hear more, he approached me and said, “What you do my wife?”
My response was simple: no one sane would ever do anything to her. It takes far too much effort.
They tried to isolate me at the restaurant. It failed. People recognised me, spoke kindly, and acknowledged me. Midway through the meal, I ordered a Grab and left without ceremony.
The driver asked how I was spending New Year’s Eve. I told him it was not going well. After hearing a small part of my story, he said, “I thought my life was bad. Now I realise it isn’t.” He told me I should write a book.
That night, alone in the hotel room, I cried, wrapped in my mother’s blue shawl and wrote a poem to the parents I lost and never had. The investigating officer called, asking for more details. I asked her to put it on hold.
I still have the recordings. The report. The memories replay themselves without warning.
After surgery, following medical advice, I reached out to family members again. When the eldest sibling finally called me back, she sounded indifferent. Teha had already spoken to her. Teha continued to stalk me through multiple accounts and later attempted to rewrite the narrative, casting herself as the victim.
They ganged up on me as Teha said, “You had your heart operated on, not your brains!” after Ayah had asked for a debt repayment of his money lent to my mother, portraying me as a money-minded brat.
That's a wise way of behaving after having two children.
To each of them, I can only say this: you had your chance to think, but you chose instead to listen.
To each their own, and for all the things they did to me, they shall always remember that although time may be your friend now, fate wouldn't be playing the same role.
Qadeem Zieman (mrshaher.official@gmail.com) is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
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