Fairman hung up and Omar stared at his reflection on the glass that divided him and the KL sky. His tie had come loose, his hair ruffled and disarrayed, his eyes riveted to the Petronas Twin Towers in the distance. It was inconceivable. The man who had created the Malaysian Reformasi was retreating, the man who had brought Anwar to his knees would no longer be the most powerful man in Malaysia. The man who had given certain meaning to his life was bowing out, to be immortalised in the pages of history.

Omar opened the top right drawer on his desk, pulled out the bottle and the crystal snifter beside it, unscrewed it, poured out the amber liquid, and lifted the hand-cut glass to his lips.

He suddenly remembered the scent of tear gas, the volleying screams of people pounded by water cannons, Del with her wild eyes and snarling mouth screaming, “Mahathir Undur! Reformasi!” It was over, but instead of feeling any measure of joy or relief, he felt nothing.

As the whisky swirled around his tongue and slid its fiery tail down his throat, he picked up the picture frame. Del cradling Alba, taken moments after her birth.

It was all for them now. Everything that had meaning was contained within the four corners of that gilded frame. He finished the whisky and thought of cradling Alba in his arms. All he wanted was her.

I knew he was at the door. A struggling Alba squirmed her way out of my arms into Omar’s.

I got her, he said. I got her.

Her cries stopped almost immediately upon seeing her father. I was on the verge of collapse.

Oh god. I whispered as I stumbled to the couch and fell onto the pillows. So tired, so tired, I murmured, my voice trembling, threatening tears. Alba started crying again, her high-pitched screams slightly muted and hoarse from the hours of being unsettled the night before. She was teething and had been impossible to put down. I had tried everything humanly possible to soothe her. My head felt leaden on the pillow. I could not move, my calves ached from pacing up and down and my arms felt like I’d been carrying weights non-stop for 12 hours. Omar started talking and singing to her, she settled for a while until a shrill wail escaped her.

Maybe she has colic? Omar suggested softly, leaning into my ear.

I don’t know, I don’t know, I whispered back.

Maybe a bath will help. Omar said, while swooping her down towards me. Alba gurgled and smiled, her chubby arms trying to grab me. It was so typical of him. All he wanted to do was play with Alba when he came home. And all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and sleep for days.

Say mama, mama.

Go away, I need to sleep, I said.

She is four months old today, darling, Omar whispered