The Talk
Chapter 33 – The Talk
Aleem didn’t arrive with flowers.
He didn’t arrive like a hero.
He arrived like a man who understood what was at stake.
Quiet.
Respectful.
Shoes lined neatly at the door.
Back straight.
Voice low.
And eyes that didn’t wander.
Because this was not a date.
This was the first real collision.
Two worlds.
Two families.
One daughter in the middle.
Isabelle’s mother was still crying when Aleem came in.
Not loud sobbing now.
Just the exhausted kind.
The kind that made her shoulders tremble.
Isabelle sat beside her.
Hands clasped.
Her father sat across.
Arms crossed.
The wall.
But now the wall had a crack.
Because he had ordered Aleem to come.
Not to punish.
To face.
Aleem stood at the entrance of the living room.
He didn’t sit without being told.
He didn’t speak first.
He bowed his head slightly.
“Assalamualaikum, uncle, aunty,” he said.
Isabelle’s father didn’t respond.
Isabelle’s mother didn’t respond.
Silence.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem waited.
A full three seconds.
Then Isabelle’s father spoke.
His voice was low.
“Sit,” he said.
Aleem sat.
Not too close to Isabelle.
Across, like a respectful guest.
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
She could feel Aleem’s calm like a steady wall beside her–
not shielding her from consequences,
but holding the room from collapsing.
Isabelle’s father stared at Aleem.
Long.
Sharp.
Then he asked,
“Did you tell her to convert?”
The question was direct.
No warm-up.
No niceties.
Aleem’s voice was calm.
“No, uncle,” he said.
Isabelle’s father’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t lie,” he said.
Aleem didn’t flinch.
“I’m not lying,” he said. “I told her many times not to convert for me.”
Isabelle’s mother sobbed quietly.
Her voice cracked.
“Then why…” she whispered. “Why she changed…”
Aleem turned slightly toward Isabelle’s mother.
His voice softened.
“Aunty,” he said gently, “I can’t answer why she believes. Only she can.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Yes.
Only she could.
Isabelle swallowed.
Her father’s voice was sharp.
“But you were involved,” he said. “You brought her to learn.”
Aleem nodded.
“Yes, uncle,” he admitted. “I brought her to meet an asatizah. Because she asked questions. And because… I wanted her learning to be proper. Not from internet. Not from random people.”
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
“Proper,” he repeated, bitter.
Aleem’s voice stayed steady.
“Yes,” he said. “Proper.”
Isabelle’s father’s eyes narrowed.
“And you didn’t tell us,” he accused.
Aleem didn’t dodge.
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “Because I didn’t think it was my place to speak to you first. She’s your daughter. She should tell you herself.”
Isabelle’s father stared.
The answer didn’t make him happy.
But it removed one accusation:
Aleem did not steal the story.
Isabelle’s mother cried softly.
“Belle… why you do this…” she whispered.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She looked at her mother.
Tears blurred her vision.
“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” Isabelle whispered. “I did it because I believe.”
Her mother shook her head.
“But you grew up in church…” she sobbed.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“I know,” Isabelle whispered. “I know. And I still respect what you gave me. I’m not saying you were wrong. I’m saying… I found something true for me.”
Her father’s voice cut in.
“True,” he repeated. “So now we false?”
Isabelle flinched.
Aleem’s voice came calm.
“Uncle,” he said gently, “please don’t make her choose between loving you and choosing faith.”
Silence.
Isabelle’s father stared.
The sentence hit.
Because it was exactly what the room was doing.
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
“Then what you want?” he snapped. “You want us clap?”
Aleem shook his head.
“No, uncle,” he said. “I don’t expect you to celebrate. I expect you to grieve. I just… hope you don’t cut her off.”
Isabelle’s mother sobbed louder.
Cut her off.
The phrase made Isabelle’s stomach drop.
Her father’s eyes flashed.
“You think I will cut my daughter?” he snapped.
Aleem’s voice stayed calm.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I only know some families do. And I’m scared for her.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Scared for her.
Aleem said it plainly.
Not to guilt.
To reveal care.
Isabelle’s father’s mouth tightened.
He looked away.
Then he said, low,
“You know what people will say?”
Aleem nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
Isabelle’s father’s voice rose.
“They will say we failed!”
Her father’s voice cracked slightly.
Not anger.
Pain.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“I understand,” he said quietly.
Isabelle’s father turned sharply.
“You understand? You don’t understand!”
Aleem didn’t fight.
He nodded.
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t fully understand. Because I’m not in your position. But I can imagine… it hurts.”
Isabelle’s father stared.
Aleem continued.
“Uncle,” he said, “you raised her. You taught her morals. You taught her kindness. You taught her sincerity. Those things–those are still in her. Those don’t disappear because she changed religion.”
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
Isabelle’s mother cried.
Aleem’s voice remained gentle.
“Belle is still Belle,” he said.
The words landed in the room.
Still Belle.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father’s eyes flickered.
A tiny crack.
Then her father asked the question Isabelle feared most.
“You marry her?” he demanded.
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Aleem went still.
He didn’t answer quickly.
He didn’t jump.
He didn’t say yes like a salesman.
He breathed.
Then he said,
“If Allah allows,” he answered.
Isabelle’s father’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t give me religious answer,” he snapped. “I ask you. You marry her?”
Aleem’s voice was quiet.
“Yes,” he said. “If she still wants me.”
The sentence was simple.
But it carried respect.
Not possession.
If she still wants me.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father’s voice was harsh.
“So this is why,” he said. “You want her convert so you can marry.”
Isabelle flinched.
Aleem’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t react with anger.
He reacted with truth.
“Uncle,” he said, “I wanted to marry someone of my faith from the start. That’s true.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Honesty.
Always honesty.
Aleem continued.
“But I did not push her,” he said. “I told her the truth: if she doesn’t believe, we cannot marry. I even told her she can leave.”
Isabelle’s father stared.
“You told her she can leave?”
Aleem nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Because I don’t want her trapped.”
Trapped.
Isabelle’s mother sobbed.
Isabelle wiped her cheeks.
Her father’s jaw clenched.
“So she chose,” he said quietly.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I chose.”
Her father stared at Isabelle.
The wall.
But now the wall looked tired.
He exhaled.
Then he asked the next question.
“Now what?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Now what.
The future.
The family.
The wedding.
The religion.
The boundaries.
The grief.
Isabelle swallowed.
“We go slow,” she whispered. “We don’t rush marriage. We let you adjust. We… we keep talking.”
Her mother cried.
“But what about Christmas?” she whispered. “What about church? What about family prayer?”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her mother’s grief was practical.
Traditions.
Holidays.
Shared rituals.
Isabelle’s voice trembled.
“I can still come,” she whispered. “I can still be with family. I can still love you. I just… I can’t worship the same way anymore.”
Her mother sobbed.
Her father’s jaw clenched.
“People will ask,” he muttered.
Isabelle nodded.
“I know,” she whispered.
Her father’s voice was low.
“And your grandparents?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Grandparents.
The bigger storm.
Isabelle swallowed.
“We tell them properly,” she whispered.
Her father stared.
Then he looked at Aleem.
“You help?” he asked, voice low.
Aleem blinked.
He didn’t look offended.
He looked surprised.
Then he nodded.
“If you want me to,” he said. “But only if you think it helps. I don’t want them to think I’m here to ‘take’ Belle.”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
That word.
Take.
He exhaled.
Then he said, quiet,
“You respect us more than I expected.”
Isabelle froze.
Her mother’s sobs softened slightly.
Aleem lowered his gaze.
“I’m serious about her,” he said simply. “So I must respect the people who raised her.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
The room went quiet.
Not solved.
Not healed.
But… less violent.
Like the earthquake had stopped shaking.
And now they were walking through rubble.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Isabelle’s father finally spoke, voice strained.
“I’m angry,” he admitted.
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Her father continued.
“But I won’t disown you,” he said, looking at Isabelle. “You’re my daughter.”
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
Her mother sobbed harder.
Her father’s voice cracked.
“But you must understand,” he said, “this feels like a death.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened painfully.
Death.
That word.
Isabelle’s voice shook.
“I know,” she whispered. “And I will mourn with you. But I’m still here.”
Her father stared.
His mouth tightened.
Then he nodded.
A small nod.
Not acceptance.
Not blessing.
But a step.
Isabelle’s chest loosened a fraction.
Aleem stayed silent.
Letting the family moment belong to the family.
Respect.
Proper.
Isabelle’s mother finally wiped her face.
Her voice was broken.
“Can… can we meet the ustazah?” she whispered.
Isabelle froze.
Her father looked at her.
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
Meet the asatizah.
Not to convert.
To understand.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered. “If you want.”
Her father’s mouth tightened.
Then he said quietly,
“Okay.”
The room went quiet.
Not healed.
But moving.
And Isabelle realized:
This talk wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning.
The beginning of rebuilding.
Not a perfect family.
But an honest one.
One that could hold grief without turning it into cruelty.
One that could hold love without making it conditional.
One that could still call her:
Daughter.