Permission
Chapter 36 – Permission
The day after ABIX came over, Isabelle’s mother cooked her favorite dish.
Not to celebrate.
Not to pretend everything was fine.
But because grief, when it couldn’t fix the past, tried to feed the present.
Isabelle ate quietly.
She didn’t mention Islam.
Her mother didn’t mention church.
Her father didn’t mention Aleem.
The house moved like it was learning a new rhythm.
Careful.
Tiptoeing.
Afraid that one wrong sentence would restart the earthquake.
Isabelle washed dishes.
Her mother dried.
Her father sat in the living room with the TV on low.
A normal evening.
But Isabelle knew something.
Normal didn’t mean resolved.
Normal meant they were trying.
And trying deserved respect.
Aleem didn’t come by for a few days.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because he didn’t want to flood the house with his presence.
He let Isabelle breathe.
He let her parents breathe.
He checked in by text.
Simple.
Aleem: How’s home?
Isabelle: Quiet. Hard. But okay.
Aleem: Okay. I’m here.
Always.
Here.
Not demanding.
Not pushing.
Just present.
Then, on Friday night, Isabelle’s father called her into the living room.
Isabelle froze.
Not again.
But she walked out.
Her father muted the TV.
He didn’t look at her for a moment.
Then he said,
“Tell Aleem to come tomorrow.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Her throat tightened.
“Tomorrow?” she whispered.
Her father nodded.
“Morning,” he said. “Not late.”
Isabelle swallowed.
“What… for?”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
“To talk,” he said.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Talk.
Again.
But this time, her father was the one initiating.
Not reacting.
Initiating.
Isabelle nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
She went back into her room.
Her hands trembled as she texted Aleem.
Isabelle: My dad wants you to come tomorrow morning. To talk.
The reply came quickly.
Aleem: Okay. What time?
Isabelle: 10.
Aleem: Okay. I’ll be there early. Proper.
Proper.
Isabelle exhaled.
Saturday morning.
The house smelled like coffee and something fried.
Her mother cooked quietly.
Not welcoming.
Not hostile.
Just… functioning.
Isabelle cleaned the table.
Wiped it twice.
Then wiped it again.
Her hands needed busy.
At 9:58, the doorbell rang.
Isabelle’s heart slammed.
Her father didn’t move.
He said calmly,
“Go.”
Isabelle opened the door.
Aleem stood there.
Neat.
Collared shirt.
Hair tidy.
No perfume.
No attempt to impress.
Just respectful.
He nodded.
“Assalamualaikum,” he said softly.
Isabelle blinked.
Her mother heard it.
She stiffened.
Isabelle didn’t know whether to reply.
Then she did.
Quiet.
“Waalaikumsalam,” she whispered.
Aleem’s eyes softened.
Just a flicker.
Not a show.
Isabelle stepped aside.
Aleem entered.
Shoes aligned neatly at the door.
He greeted her parents.
“Uncle. Aunty.”
Her father nodded once.
Her mother looked at the kitchen counter.
Aleem didn’t take it personally.
He sat where her father pointed.
Isabelle sat slightly to the side.
Not between them.
Not hiding.
Just… present.
Her father spoke first.
No small talk.
No weather.
Straight to the point.
“You want marry my daughter?”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Her mother froze.
Aleem didn’t flinch.
He inhaled.
“Yes, uncle,” he answered.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
“When?”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem’s voice was steady.
“Not now,” he said. “Not immediately.”
Her father’s brows knit.
“Why?”
Aleem answered calmly.
“Because she is new to Islam,” he said. “And because your family is still adjusting. And because marriage should not be used to patch pain.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father stared.
Her mother’s shoulders loosened slightly.
Aleem continued.
“I’m serious,” he said. “But I’m not rushing.”
Her father’s mouth tightened.
He asked the next question.
“Then what you want?”
Aleem swallowed.
His voice remained respectful.
“I want to court properly,” he said. “With your knowledge. With your boundaries. And I want to earn your trust.”
Earn.
Trust.
Not demand.
Not claim.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her father stared.
Then he asked, low,
“What is ‘proper’ to you?”
Aleem didn’t answer like a preacher.
He answered like a man.
“Proper means I don’t isolate her,” he said. “I don’t turn her against you. I don’t treat her conversion like a trophy. I support her learning. I protect her from pressure. And I come to you before I make big decisions.”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
Isabelle’s mother’s eyes filled.
Aleem’s voice softened slightly.
“Uncle,” he added, “I know you’re hurting. I know this feels like you lost something. But I promise you… I’m not here to take your daughter away from you.”
Take.
That word again.
Her father’s eyes sharpened.
He asked sharply,
“Then why Muslims always make people convert?”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Her mother’s lips trembled.
Aleem didn’t react defensively.
He answered carefully.
“Uncle,” he said, “Islam doesn’t allow a Muslim man to marry a woman who is not Muslim in our context here. So yes, for marriage, the faith alignment matters. But conversion must be her choice. If she didn’t believe, I would not marry her. Even if I loved her.”
Her father stared.
“Even if you loved,” he repeated.
Aleem nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
Silence.
Her father’s mouth tightened.
Not pleased.
But acknowledging the consistency.
Isabelle’s mother finally spoke.
Her voice was quiet.
“You… you love her?”
Aleem’s gaze softened.
“Yes, aunty,” he said.
Her mother’s throat tightened.
“Then why you let her suffer?” she whispered. “Now she suffer with us.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“Aunty,” he said gently, “I didn’t want this to be war. I told Belle she could leave. I told her to take her time. I told her not to do it for me.”
Her mother cried softly.
Isabelle reached for her mother’s hand.
Her mother didn’t pull away.
Not fully.
But she didn’t squeeze back either.
Halfway.
Trying.
Her father watched.
Then he asked the question Isabelle didn’t expect.
“Your parents know?”
Aleem nodded.
“Yes, uncle,” he said.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“What they think?”
Aleem’s voice was calm.
“They know I’m serious,” he said. “They want to meet your family when you’re ready.”
Meet.
Families.
The word made Isabelle’s stomach flip.
Her father leaned back.
Silence.
Then he asked, blunt,
“If your parents come, they will pressure us?”
Aleem shook his head.
“No, uncle,” he said. “My parents are not here to pressure. They’re here to show respect.”
Her father stared.
He looked tired.
Then he said, low,
“I don’t want my wife to cry every night.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her mother’s shoulders trembled.
Aleem’s voice softened.
“I don’t want that either,” he said.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
“You can’t stop her crying,” he snapped. “You caused this.”
Isabelle flinched.
Aleem didn’t fight.
He nodded slowly.
“I’m part of the situation,” he admitted. “But aunty’s tears are grief. Not only because of me. Because of change. Because of fear. Because of what she thinks she lost.”
Her father stared.
Aleem continued.
“And uncle,” he said, “I can’t erase grief. But I can promise I will not make it worse. I will not disrespect you. I will not rush Belle into marriage. I will not hide. And I will not leave her alone in the consequences.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Leave her alone.
That mattered.
Her father’s gaze stayed sharp.
Then he asked quietly,
“So you asking permission?”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Aleem inhaled.
“Yes, uncle,” he said. “I’m asking permission to continue properly. With intention for marriage when the time is right.”
Her father stared.
Long.
Then he looked at Isabelle.
His voice was low.
“You want this?” he asked.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her father’s eyes softened a fraction.
Then hardened again.
Because love and fear can exist together.
Her father exhaled.
He looked at Aleem.
Then he said the sentence that made Isabelle’s heart jolt.
“Bring your parents,” he said.
Isabelle froze.
Her mother looked up.
Aleem went still.
Her father continued, voice strained.
“I want to talk to them,” he said. “Not to fight. To understand what kind of family you are.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Not to fight.
To understand.
Aleem nodded slowly.
“Yes, uncle,” he said. “Thank you.”
Her father’s mouth tightened.
“Don’t thank me,” he muttered. “I’m still not happy.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
But she felt something else too.
Movement.
A door opening.
Her father looked at Isabelle.
His voice was quieter.
“Belle,” he said, “if you are Muslim now… then be a good one.”
Isabelle froze.
Her throat tightened.
Her father continued, voice rough.
“Be kind,” he said. “Be respectful. Don’t become arrogant. Don’t look down on us.”
Isabelle’s eyes filled.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
Her father nodded once.
Then he stood.
Conversation ended.
But Isabelle sat there, heart pounding.
Because her father hadn’t blessed the relationship.
Not yet.
But he had done something huge.
He had acknowledged it.
He had engaged.
He had asked to meet Aleem’s parents.
That wasn’t acceptance.
But it was an opening.
And when Aleem left, he didn’t touch Isabelle in front of her parents.
He only nodded to her.
A silent promise:
I’m here.
We go slow.
We do it properly.
And Isabelle, standing at the door watching him walk away, realized:
Permission wasn’t a yes.
Permission was a doorway.
And today…
they finally stepped into it.