Two Families, One Table
Chapter 37 – Two Families, One Table
Aleem’s mother arrived with food.
Of course she did.
Not because Isabelle’s family needed it.
Because in Aleem’s world, you never walk into someone else’s home empty-handed.
Food was respect.
Food was peace offering.
Food was a way to say:
We are not here to fight. We are here to sit.
Isabelle watched from her window as Aleem’s family car pulled up.
Her heartbeat climbed.
Her palms were damp.
Her mother stood in the kitchen pretending to be busy.
Her father sat in the living room pretending to be calm.
No one was calm.
Isabelle exhaled.
Two families.
One table.
And a love story nobody asked for–
but everyone now had to hold.
The doorbell rang.
Isabelle’s mother flinched.
Isabelle’s father didn’t move.
Isabelle swallowed.
“I’ll open,” she whispered.
She walked to the door.
Her hands trembled as she turned the knob.
Aleem stood there first.
Not inside.
Not intruding.
Just outside, acting like a buffer.
He looked at Isabelle.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Isabelle nodded, even though she wasn’t.
Then Aleem stepped slightly aside.
And his parents appeared.
His father first.
Tall.
Serious face.
A quiet kind of authority.
Then his mother.
Warm eyes.
Soft scarf.
Carrying two large containers of food like they were sacred.
And behind them, a younger sibling Isabelle hadn’t met before–
his sister.
Neat.
Polite.
A smile that looked nervous but sincere.
Aleem’s father spoke first.
“Assalamualaikum,” he greeted.
Isabelle froze.
Then she replied quietly,
“Waalaikumsalam.”
The words still felt new.
But they came out steady.
Aleem’s mother smiled.
“You must be Isabelle,” she said.
Isabelle nodded.
“Yes, aunty.”
Aleem’s mother’s smile softened.
“Aunty?” she repeated, amused. “Call me makcik can also.”
Isabelle blinked.
Makcik.
A word that sounded like family.
Isabelle smiled weakly.
“Okay… makcik,” she tried.
Aleem’s mother’s eyes warmed.
“Alhamdulillah,” she murmured.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Then Isabelle stepped back.
“Please come in,” she whispered.
Aleem’s parents entered.
Shoes removed neatly.
Not rushed.
Not loud.
Everything was careful.
Everything was respectful.
Isabelle’s mother stood near the kitchen entrance.
Her eyes were red.
She had cried earlier.
She had tried to hide it.
But grief never hides well.
Isabelle’s father stood up when they entered.
His posture stiff.
His face unreadable.
Aleem’s father stepped forward.
He bowed his head slightly.
“Thank you for allowing us to visit,” he said.
Isabelle’s father didn’t smile.
But he nodded once.
“Sit,” he said.
The same word he had used with Aleem.
Sit.
Not welcome.
But permission.
They sat.
One table.
Two families.
Isabelle in the middle.
Aleem beside her, slightly behind–
present, but not speaking over.
Aleem’s mother opened the containers.
The smell filled the room.
Spiced rice.
Fried chicken.
Something sweet.
Isabelle’s mother blinked.
Aleem’s mother smiled gently.
“I brought food,” she said. “Just… small thing. Please don’t mind.”
Isabelle’s mother’s lips trembled.
She nodded.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Aleem’s mother placed the containers carefully on the table.
Then she looked at Isabelle’s parents.
Her voice was soft.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Aleem’s mother continued.
“I’m sorry this is painful,” she said. “We know you didn’t expect this.”
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, low,
“Yes. Painful.”
Aleem’s father nodded slowly.
“We understand,” he said. “If it was my daughter, I would feel the same.”
Isabelle’s father blinked.
A tiny crack.
Aleem’s father didn’t say,
You should accept.
He said,
I would feel the same.
Empathy.
Not persuasion.
Isabelle’s mother’s eyes filled.
Her voice cracked.
“Why…” she whispered. “Why she change?”
Aleem’s mother looked at Isabelle.
Not accusatory.
Not demanding.
Just gentle.
“Isabelle,” she said softly, “you want to share?”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her hands trembled.
She looked at her parents.
Then at Aleem’s parents.
Then she took a breath.
“I learned,” she whispered. “For months. I asked questions. I went alone. I… I didn’t do it because of Aleem.”
Isabelle’s father stared.
Aleem’s father nodded.
“We told Aleem,” he said, “if she did it for him, we would be worried. Because faith is between her and God.”
Isabelle’s mother sniffed.
Her voice broke.
“But you still want her to marry,” she whispered.
Aleem’s mother looked pained.
She nodded slowly.
“Yes,” she admitted. “But not like this. Not with you bleeding.”
Isabelle’s mother’s tears spilled.
Aleem’s mother continued, voice trembling slightly.
“I don’t want to take your daughter,” she said softly. “I want to gain her as family… with your blessing, if possible.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
Blessing.
Not demand.
Not entitlement.
Aleem’s father nodded.
“We’re not here to force,” he said. “We’re here to show respect. And to promise you… Aleem will not isolate her.”
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
He stared at Aleem.
Aleem sat straight.
He met the gaze.
No flinching.
Isabelle’s father asked bluntly,
“You promise?”
Aleem’s father answered before Aleem could.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “He promises. And I will hold him to it.”
Isabelle blinked.
Aleem’s father–
not just supporting his son.
But taking responsibility.
Isabelle’s father’s mouth tightened.
He looked away.
Then he asked the question that had been simmering under everything.
“Isabelle… you sure you believe?”
The question wasn’t to test her.
It was to find something stable.
A reason that wasn’t romance.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure.”
Her mother sobbed.
Isabelle’s father’s eyes closed briefly.
Then he exhaled.
Aleem’s mother’s voice softened.
“Aunty,” she said to Isabelle’s mother, “I know you’re grieving. If you want, you can ask me anything.”
Isabelle’s mother looked up.
Her eyes red.
Her voice cracked.
“Must she wear tudung?” she whispered.
Aleem’s mother shook her head quickly.
“No,” she said. “Not immediately. That is her choice, her journey.”
Isabelle’s mother blinked.
“And must she stop coming home?” she whispered.
Aleem’s mother’s eyes widened.
“Of course not,” she said, almost offended. “Home is home. Parents are parents.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Aleem’s father nodded.
“Islam teaches kindness to parents,” he added. “Even if parents are not Muslim.”
Isabelle’s mother’s lips trembled.
She whispered,
“Then why it feels like I’m losing her?”
The room went quiet.
No one had a perfect answer.
Aleem’s mother’s eyes filled.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of tissues.
Then she did something Isabelle didn’t expect.
She offered it to Isabelle’s mother.
Not across the table.
She stood.
Walked around.
And placed it gently beside Isabelle’s mother’s hand.
Like a silent statement:
I’m not your enemy.
Isabelle’s mother stared.
Then she took the tissues.
Her fingers trembling.
Not friendship.
Not yet.
But humanity.
Aleem’s mother sat back down.
Her voice was soft.
“You’re not losing her,” she said. “You’re sharing her.”
Isabelle’s mother sobbed.
Sharing.
That was what parents hated.
But also what love demanded.
Later, the conversation turned practical.
Not because they were ready.
Because practical questions were easier than pain.
Isabelle’s father asked about marriage.
Timeline.
Intentions.
Aleem’s father answered calmly.
“No rush,” he said. “We want Belle to settle into her faith. We want both families to heal.”
Isabelle’s father nodded once.
He looked tired.
Then he asked something Isabelle didn’t expect.
“If… if we agree,” he said, voice rough, “how wedding?”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Wedding.
He was asking about wedding.
Not a promise.
But a possibility.
Aleem’s mother smiled gently.
“We can do simple,” she said. “We can do with respect to both families. We can talk. We can meet again.”
Meet again.
More conversations.
More rubbing of rough edges.
Isabelle’s father nodded.
Then he said something that sounded almost like surrender.
“We need time,” he muttered.
Aleem’s father nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “We give time.”
Time.
Always time.
When Aleem’s family left, Isabelle walked them to the door.
Aleem’s mother held Isabelle’s hands briefly.
Warm.
Gentle.
Not claiming.
Just… welcoming.
“Take care of your parents,” she whispered.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I will,” she whispered.
Aleem’s father nodded at Isabelle.
“Be strong,” he said simply.
Isabelle nodded.
Then Aleem walked out behind them.
He paused at the threshold.
He looked back at Isabelle.
Not speaking.
Because her father was watching.
But his eyes said everything:
You did well.
I’m here.
We go slow.
After the door closed, Isabelle leaned against it.
Her chest heaving.
Not because it was solved.
Because it wasn’t.
But because it was… possible.
Two families had sat at one table.
No shouting.
No insults.
No threats.
Just grief.
Just respect.
Just time.
Isabelle walked back into the living room.
Her mother was quiet.
Her father sat on the sofa, staring at nothing.
Then her father spoke, voice low.
“His parents… okay,” he admitted.
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Her father continued, grudgingly.
“They didn’t come and act big,” he said.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her mother sniffed.
Then she whispered,
“His mother… kind.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Kind.
That was huge.
Isabelle sat beside her mother.
She leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder.
Her mother didn’t push her away.
Not fully.
But she didn’t hold her tight either.
Halfway.
Trying.
Isabelle closed her eyes.
Two families.
One table.
And for the first time, Isabelle felt something that wasn’t panic.
Not joy.
Not relief.
Something quieter.
Hope.