The Meeting
Chapter 34 – The Meeting
Isabelle’s mother cried herself into sleep that night.
Not loud crying.
Quiet crying.
The kind that left her eyes swollen and her body exhausted.
Isabelle sat beside her bed for a long time, listening to her mother’s breathing.
Every inhale sounded like grief.
Every exhale sounded like love refusing to let go.
In the living room, her father didn’t sleep.
He sat on the sofa with the television off.
No news.
No noise.
Just silence.
The wall didn’t disappear.
But the wall had spoken.
I won’t disown you.
The sentence echoed in Isabelle’s chest.
Not acceptance.
But safety.
And safety was enough for one night.
When Isabelle finally went into her room, she texted Aleem.
Isabelle: They want to meet the ustazah.
The reply came quickly.
Aleem: Okay. We do it properly.
Isabelle stared.
Proper.
Always.
She exhaled.
Isabelle: Thank you for today.
Aleem: Thank you for being brave.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Brave.
Or exhausted.
Or both.
The meeting was scheduled for the following weekend.
Not too soon.
Not too late.
Enough time for her mother’s tears to soften into something more functional.
Enough time for her father’s anger to cool into something more controlled.
They chose a neutral place.
Not a mosque.
Not a church.
A small consultation room at the asatizah’s office.
Simple.
Chairs.
A table.
Water.
Books.
Nothing that felt like propaganda.
Nothing that felt like a trap.
Isabelle insisted on that.
No ambush.
No pressure.
Just conversation.
Her father agreed.
Her mother nodded quietly.
And Aleem–
Aleem offered to sit outside if Isabelle wanted.
“I can wait,” he said. “This is your family.”
But Isabelle shook her head.
“No,” she whispered. “You should be there. Not as the reason. As… support.”
Aleem nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
On the day of the meeting, Isabelle’s hands trembled.
Her mother wore simple clothes.
No jewelry.
No makeup.
Like she was attending a funeral.
Her father wore a collared shirt.
Neat.
Proper.
Like he was going into battle.
They arrived early.
They sat in the waiting area.
Isabelle’s mother stared at her lap.
Isabelle’s father stared ahead.
No one spoke much.
Then Aleem arrived.
He greeted them with a polite nod.
“Uncle. Aunty.”
Her father grunted.
Her mother looked away.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem didn’t react.
He didn’t demand warmth.
He didn’t perform.
He just sat down.
Quiet.
Present.
Isabelle’s phone buzzed.
Asatizah: Come in.
Isabelle stood.
Her legs felt weak.
She glanced at Aleem.
He nodded once.
Steady.
They walked in.
The asatizah stood when they entered.
She smiled warmly.
Not overly cheerful.
Not fake.
Just… gentle.
“Assalamualaikum,” she greeted.
Isabelle replied softly.
Her father didn’t.
Her mother didn’t.
The asatizah didn’t force it.
She simply said,
“Thank you for coming.”
They sat.
The room was quiet.
The asatizah poured water.
Then she looked at Isabelle’s parents.
Her voice was calm.
“I understand this is difficult,” she said.
Isabelle’s mother’s eyes filled instantly.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
The asatizah continued,
“I want to be clear,” she said. “I am not here to convince you. I am not here to pressure you. I am here to answer questions and to ensure Isabelle’s journey was her choice.”
Isabelle’s chest loosened slightly.
Her father stared.
Then he spoke.
His voice was sharp.
“Did you tell her to convert?”
The same question.
Different target.
The asatizah didn’t flinch.
“No,” she answered calmly.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“Then why she convert?” he demanded.
The asatizah’s gaze softened.
“You may ask her,” she said gently. “But I can tell you this: I asked Isabelle many times if she was doing it for a man. She said no. I would not proceed if I sensed coercion.”
Isabelle’s mother’s voice cracked.
“How do you know?” she whispered. “People can lie…”
The asatizah nodded.
“You’re right,” she said. “People can lie. That is why I asked her to come alone. That is why I asked her to pause and test her intention. That is why I asked her, ‘If Aleem disappears, would you still choose this?’”
Isabelle’s father’s eyes widened slightly.
Isabelle’s mother blinked.
The asatizah continued,
“She came alone,” she said. “No boyfriend in the room. No one holding her hand. Just Isabelle. Crying. Shaking. But clear.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father’s jaw clenched.
Her mother’s tears spilled.
Not only grief.
Something else.
A recognition that Isabelle wasn’t being dragged.
Isabelle chose.
Her mother whispered,
“Why… why Islam?”
The question was softer.
Not accusation.
Curiosity mixed with pain.
The asatizah nodded.
“Many people find Islam through different doors,” she said. “Some through hardship. Some through curiosity. Some through peace.”
Peace.
Isabelle’s mother’s throat tightened.
The asatizah continued,
“Isabelle told me she felt calm when she observed prayer,” she said. “She felt drawn to the idea of God’s oneness. She felt that faith should be sincere, not inherited blindly.”
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
“Inherited blindly,” he repeated, offended.
The asatizah shook her head.
“Not an insult,” she said gently. “It is simply a truth: we all inherit a starting point. Isabelle wanted to be sure of her own convictions.”
Her father stared.
Isabelle’s mother cried softly.
The asatizah leaned forward slightly.
“You raised a thoughtful daughter,” she said.
Isabelle’s father’s mouth tightened.
Not comforted.
But acknowledged.
The asatizah continued,
“Her change does not erase what you gave her,” she said. “It reflects it.”
Isabelle’s mother looked up.
Tears on her cheeks.
“Erase…” she whispered.
The asatizah nodded.
“Many parents fear conversion means losing a child,” she said. “But Isabelle is still Isabelle. She still loves you. She still belongs to you as your daughter.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Belongs.
Daughter.
Her mother sobbed.
Her father looked away.
Then her father asked the next question.
A practical one.
The kind men ask when they can’t handle emotion.
“What now?” he demanded.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
The asatizah nodded.
“Now,” she said, “Isabelle learns how to practice as a Muslim while maintaining respect for her family.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“Respect how?”
The asatizah answered calmly.
“By not mocking your faith,” she said. “By not arguing aggressively. By being kind. By keeping family ties. Islam encourages kindness to parents, even if they are not Muslim.”
Isabelle’s mother blinked.
“Islam says that?” she whispered.
The asatizah nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “Kindness to parents is a major teaching.”
Isabelle’s mother’s lips trembled.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
He asked sharply,
“Can she still come for Christmas?”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
The asatizah nodded gently.
“Yes,” she said. “She can be present as family. She can eat together. She can celebrate the gathering. But she will not worship in a way that contradicts her belief.”
Her father’s mouth tightened.
“Then she stands there like outsider,” he muttered.
The asatizah’s voice softened.
“Or she stands there as a daughter who still loves you,” she said.
Silence.
Her father stared.
Her mother wiped her cheeks.
Then her mother asked the question Isabelle feared.
“Will she… marry?”
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
The asatizah looked at Isabelle.
Then at her mother.
She answered carefully.
“Marriage is her choice,” she said. “But if she marries, yes, Islam encourages marrying a Muslim man. And she is already with Aleem.”
Isabelle’s mother flinched.
Her father’s jaw clenched.
Aleem remained still.
He didn’t look triumphant.
He didn’t look eager.
He looked respectful.
The asatizah continued,
“But,” she added, “marriage should not be rushed as a solution to grief. Isabelle needs time to grow in faith. Her family needs time to adjust.”
Isabelle’s father exhaled sharply.
“Finally,” he muttered.
Isabelle blinked.
Her father agreed with that.
Time.
Proper.
Not rushed.
The asatizah turned to Aleem.
“And you,” she said gently. “What is your responsibility?”
Aleem’s throat moved.
He inhaled.
He answered calmly.
“To protect her,” he said. “Not just from relatives, but from pressure. To make sure she learns properly. To make sure she is not isolated from her family. And to respect you as her parents.”
Isabelle’s mother’s eyes filled.
Her father stared.
The asatizah nodded.
“And will you allow her to be close to them?” she asked.
Aleem’s voice was firm.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
Then he asked bluntly,
“You promise?”
Aleem held his gaze.
“Yes, uncle,” he said. “I promise.”
The word promise hung in the air.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Because promises weren’t magic.
But they were intention.
And intention mattered.
The meeting lasted an hour.
Then two.
Not all questions were answered.
But something softened.
Her mother stopped crying every minute.
Her father stopped attacking every sentence.
They listened.
They asked.
They absorbed.
Not because they were suddenly okay.
Because they felt… less powerless.
Knowledge didn’t heal grief.
But it made grief less blind.
At the end, the asatizah stood.
She smiled gently.
“Thank you,” she said. “This is a process. It’s normal to grieve. But please… keep talking. Don’t let silence turn into resentment.”
Isabelle’s mother nodded weakly.
Her father nodded once.
A small nod.
Not approval.
But acknowledgment.
Outside the office, Isabelle’s parents walked ahead.
Quiet.
Exhausted.
Isabelle lingered behind with Aleem.
Her hands trembled.
Aleem looked at her.
“You okay?”
Isabelle laughed weakly.
“I feel like I ran a marathon,” she whispered.
Aleem’s lips twitched.
“You kind of did,” he said.
Isabelle exhaled.
Then she looked at him.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem shook his head.
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “You did the hard part.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Hard part.
Yes.
Speaking truth in the room that raised you.
Watching your mother grieve.
Watching your father struggle.
Still staying gentle.
Still staying honest.
Still staying firm.
As they walked toward her parents, Isabelle realized:
This was what “proper” really meant.
Not perfection.
Not painless.
Not immediate acceptance.
Proper meant: everyone stayed in the room.
Even when it hurt.
And that–
that was a kind of love too.