Coming Home With a New Name
Chapter 31 – Coming Home With a New Name
Aleem arrived in twelve minutes.
Isabelle counted.
Not because she was impatient.
Because she needed her hands to do something.
She stood at the void deck where the lights always buzzed too loudly.
She hugged her tote bag against her chest.
Her stomach churned.
Not regret.
Just the strange tremor of realizing:
her life had crossed an invisible line.
Behind her, her block rose.
Home.
Inside that home were her parents.
Her mother asleep.
Her father reading.
Two people who loved her.
Two people who didn’t know that Isabelle had just stepped into a new identity.
Not a new personality.
Not a new face.
But a new relationship with God.
Isabelle’s phone buzzed.
Aleem: I’m here.
Isabelle looked up.
And there he was.
Walking fast.
Not running.
But close.
His shoulders slightly tense.
His jaw set.
His eyes searching.
When he saw her, something in him softened.
Relief.
He stopped a few steps away.
He didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
Not in public.
Not automatically.
He respected space.
But his voice was low.
“Belle,” he said. “You okay?”
Isabelle laughed weakly.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
Aleem nodded.
He looked at her like he was trying to memorize her face.
Like he was checking for cracks.
Fear.
Regret.
Pressure.
Isabelle swallowed.
“It’s real,” she whispered.
Aleem’s throat moved.
He exhaled softly.
“Alhamdulillah,” he said again.
The word landed differently now.
Not a phrase she heard.
A phrase she belonged to.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
She looked away.
Aleem spoke carefully.
“Do you want to sit?” he asked.
Isabelle nodded.
They sat on the void deck bench.
The same bench Isabelle had sat on while waiting for him to pick her up for the wedding.
Different night.
Different Isabelle.
Aleem turned slightly toward her.
His voice was quiet.
“Tell me,” he said. “How did it feel?”
Isabelle swallowed.
How did it feel?
Not fireworks.
Not romance.
Not dramatic.
Isabelle searched for words.
“It felt… still,” she whispered. “Like… like something in me finally stopped fighting.”
Aleem’s eyes softened.
He nodded slowly.
“That’s mercy,” he said.
Mercy.
The word made Isabelle’s throat tighten.
Isabelle whispered,
“I was scared you’d think… you know.”
Aleem frowned slightly.
“Think what?”
Isabelle swallowed.
“That you… won,” she admitted. “That I did it because of you.”
Aleem’s face tightened.
Not angry.
Pained.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly. “Belle… I don’t want that. I never wanted that.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Aleem continued, voice lower.
“If you did it for me, I would be terrified,” he admitted. “Because then you would blame me one day.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“I didn’t,” she whispered.
Aleem held her gaze.
“I know,” he said.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
How did he know?
Because Aleem watched.
Because Aleem listened.
Because Aleem didn’t rush.
Because Aleem cared more about integrity than convenience.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Proud.
Not relieved.
Not triumphant.
Proud.
She blinked hard.
Then she whispered,
“What now?”
Aleem exhaled.
“Now,” he said gently, “we take care of you.”
Isabelle blinked.
Aleem continued.
“This is a big change,” he said. “Even if it feels peaceful, it will still be… heavy. Especially at home.”
Home.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her father.
Her mother.
The grief.
The fear.
The possibility that her father would feel betrayed.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I have to tell them,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
Isabelle’s voice trembled.
“I don’t know how,” she admitted.
Aleem didn’t give a script.
He only asked,
“Do you want me there?”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
The question returned.
The one he asked months ago.
Do you want me to be there?
This time, Isabelle didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Aleem nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
Then he asked gently,
“When?”
Isabelle swallowed.
Soon.
Before it becomes another lie.
Before her mother finds out accidentally.
Before her father hears it from someone else.
Isabelle’s voice was small.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered.
Aleem’s jaw tightened.
Not fear.
Respect.
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
Isabelle exhaled.
Her hands trembled.
Aleem looked at her hands.
Then, carefully–
slowly–
he asked,
“Can I hold your hand?”
Isabelle froze.
Such a simple question.
Such a small consent.
But it hit Isabelle’s chest.
Because Aleem could’ve reached.
He could’ve assumed.
But he asked.
Always asked.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Aleem reached.
His fingers wrapped around hers.
Warm.
Steady.
Not possessive.
Not claiming.
Just… present.
Isabelle exhaled.
Her chest softened.
Aleem’s voice was low.
“Did you take a Muslim name?” he asked gently.
Isabelle blinked.
The asatizah had offered.
Isabelle had refused.
But the question still lingered.
Name.
Identity.
Belonging.
Isabelle shook her head.
“No,” she said softly. “I want to keep Isabelle.”
Aleem nodded.
“Good,” he said. “You don’t need to erase yourself.”
Erase.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
That was the fear.
That conversion meant deletion.
But Aleem said it plainly:
You don’t need to erase yourself.
Isabelle squeezed his hand.
Aleem looked at her.
His gaze softened.
“You’re still Belle,” he said.
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
Still Belle.
Still herself.
Just… with new faith.
Isabelle whispered,
“I’m scared my mom will cry.”
Aleem nodded.
“She might,” he said softly.
Isabelle’s voice cracked.
“And my dad…”
Aleem’s jaw tightened.
“He might be angry,” he admitted. “Or quiet. Or both.”
Isabelle swallowed.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“But Belle,” he said, “your father loves you. Even if his love is… hard.”
Isabelle nodded.
Hard love.
The wall.
The protection.
The fear.
Aleem squeezed her hand.
“And tomorrow,” he said quietly, “we don’t argue. We don’t win. We just tell the truth.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Tell the truth.
No manipulation.
No persuasion.
Just truth.
Isabelle nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
When it was time, Aleem walked her to the lift.
He didn’t come up.
Not yet.
Not without being invited.
He waited until the doors opened.
Then he looked at her.
His voice was soft.
“Text me when you’re inside,” he said.
Isabelle nodded.
“I will,” she whispered.
The doors started closing.
Isabelle looked at him through the narrowing gap.
And in the last second, she saw something in his eyes.
Not triumph.
Not relief.
Something deeper.
A kind of reverence.
Because the woman he loved had chosen faith.
Not for him.
But for God.
And that kind of choice demanded gentleness.
The lift doors closed.
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
She stepped out on her floor.
She walked to her door.
She unlocked it quietly.
Her father was still in the living room.
Reading.
He looked up.
“Back?” he asked.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her father nodded.
Then he looked back at his book.
Isabelle stood there.
Her chest tight.
Her throat dry.
She wanted to say it now.
She wanted to rip the bandage.
But her mother’s door was closed.
Her mother asleep.
Isabelle couldn’t do it without her mother.
Not properly.
So Isabelle went into her room.
She closed the door.
She texted Aleem:
Isabelle: I’m home.
His reply came:
Aleem: Okay. Sleep, Belle. Tomorrow we do it properly.
Isabelle stared at the message.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she would walk into the living room and speak the sentence that would change her family forever.
But tonight–
tonight she sat on her bed and whispered quietly,
“Bismillah.”
And for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was borrowing someone else’s language.
She felt like she was coming home.