The Wali's Practice
Chapter 46 – The Wali’s Practice
The week before the nikah, Isabelle’s father started practicing a sentence he didn’t understand.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he promised.
And in Isabelle’s father’s world, promises were heavy things.
You didn’t make them casually.
You didn’t break them quietly.
You carried them.
Even when they bruised your hands.
It began with a call.
A soft knock on Isabelle’s door.
“Belle,” her father said.
Isabelle’s stomach tightened.
She opened it slowly.
Her father stood there with his phone.
No anger.
No sharpness.
Just that serious-talk shirt again.
“I need you to help,” he muttered.
Isabelle blinked.
“Help with what?”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
“This wali thing,” he said, like the word tasted strange.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
He continued, voice rough,
“I don’t want to stand there and say wrong. Later people laugh. Later… shame.”
Face.
Always face.
But this time, face wasn’t pride.
Face was his way of protecting her.
Isabelle swallowed.
“We can ask ustaz,” she whispered.
Her father nodded once.
“I already ask Aleem,” he muttered. “He say there is rehearsal.”
Rehearsal.
Like a wedding was a performance.
But Isabelle understood.
He needed a way to step into the room without feeling blind.
Isabelle nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her father stared at his phone.
Then he held it out.
On the screen was a voice note.
Arabic.
Slow.
Measured.
A man’s voice repeating something with gentle patience.
Her father pointed.
“This sentence,” he said. “I must say?”
Isabelle listened.
Her throat tightened.
Yes.
The ijab.
The part where her father, as wali, would marry her off.
Not in a Chinese banquet.
Not with a toast.
With a sentence that would change her life.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her father exhaled.
“Teach me,” he muttered.
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Not because he was finally approving.
Because he was finally participating.
The rehearsal was set for Thursday.
At the mosque.
Not the main prayer hall.
A smaller room.
Quiet.
Neutral.
Isabelle went with her parents.
Aleem met them at the entrance.
He didn’t walk too close.
He didn’t touch Isabelle.
He greeted politely.
“Uncle. Aunty.”
Isabelle’s mother’s hands trembled.
She held her bag tightly like a shield.
Her father nodded.
They followed Aleem inside.
Isabelle watched her mother’s face as they walked.
Her mother looked like someone entering a hospital.
Not because she feared God.
Because she feared what this place symbolized.
A confirmation.
A point of no return.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
She whispered to her mother,
“Ma… you okay?”
Her mother forced a nod.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
Her voice said: I’m not.
Aleem slowed his steps.
Not listening.
But aware.
Like he could feel the tension in the air.
The asatizah was kind.
Middle-aged.
Soft voice.
No preaching.
No assumptions.
He greeted Isabelle’s parents respectfully.
He spoke to Isabelle’s father like he mattered.
Not like a barrier.
Isabelle’s father sat stiffly.
Isabelle’s mother sat beside him, eyes red.
Aleem sat slightly behind Isabelle.
Not dominating.
Present.
The asatizah explained the nikah simply.
What would happen.
What would be said.
Where Isabelle’s parents would sit.
How long it would take.
How to keep it dignified.
How to keep it calm.
Isabelle’s mother whispered,
“We can… attend everything?”
The asatizah nodded.
“Yes,” he said gently. “You are her parents. You have every right to witness your daughter’s marriage.”
Isabelle’s mother’s lips trembled.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
Then her father cleared his throat.
He pointed at the paper.
“This sentence,” he muttered. “I must say exactly?”
The asatizah smiled softly.
“We practice,” he said.
Practice.
Isabelle’s father looked annoyed.
Like he hated needing practice.
But he nodded.
The asatizah played the audio again.
Slow.
Clear.
He broke the sentence down.
Syllable by syllable.
Not laughing.
Not patronizing.
Just steady.
Isabelle’s father repeated.
The first attempt was stiff.
The vowels wrong.
The consonants too hard.
Isabelle’s father frowned.
“Like that wrong?”
The asatizah shook his head.
“Not wrong,” he said. “Just… we can make it clearer.”
Isabelle watched her father’s mouth tighten.
He repeated again.
And again.
His accent remained.
His discomfort remained.
But slowly, the sentence began to sound like something he could hold.
Not perfect.
But valid.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Because this wasn’t about Arabic.
This was about a father choosing to stand in her new world instead of forcing her to stand alone.
After the fifth attempt, Isabelle’s father exhaled.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Good enough.”
The asatizah smiled.
“It’s good,” he said. “As long as intention is clear.”
Intention.
Always.
Isabelle’s father nodded once.
Then he asked bluntly,
“On that day… I hold her hand?”
Isabelle froze.
Her mother froze.
The asatizah answered gently.
“Yes,” he said. “You will be beside her. You will be the one giving her in marriage.”
Isabelle’s father stared at the paper.
His throat moved.
He muttered,
“Okay.”
His voice sounded like gravel.
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Because her father–
the man who rarely touched emotion–
had just asked a question that was actually:
Will I still be a father in this?
And the answer was yes.
When the rehearsal ended, Isabelle’s mother stood slowly.
She lingered.
Her eyes moved around the room.
The prayer rugs.
The shelves.
The quietness.
Then she whispered to Isabelle,
“It’s… peaceful.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her mother’s eyes filled.
“I hate that it’s peaceful,” she whispered. “Because if it was ugly, I could be angry.”
Isabelle swallowed.
She didn’t know how to respond.
So she held her mother’s hand.
Her mother held back–
then squeezed, just a little.
Halfway.
Trying.
Aleem’s mother appeared then.
She had come quietly, not to intrude.
She greeted Isabelle’s parents.
Not excited.
Not triumphant.
Just… gentle.
“Aunty,” she said softly to Isabelle’s mother, “if you want, on the day itself, you can sit with me. I will guide you where to go.”
Isabelle’s mother blinked.
Her lips trembled.
She nodded.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
This.
This was how bridges were built.
Not with grand apologies.
With small offers.
Small kindness.
On the way home, the car was quiet.
Her father drove.
Her mother stared out the window.
Isabelle sat in the back seat, hands folded.
Her father spoke suddenly.
“Belle,” he said.
Isabelle’s stomach tightened.
“Yes?”
Her father’s voice was low.
“That sentence… I can’t remember,” he muttered.
Isabelle blinked.
Her father continued quickly, as if embarrassed.
“You record for me,” he said. “So I practice at home.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her father cleared his throat.
“And… tell Aleem,” he muttered, “don’t make ceremony too long. Your mother cannot tahan.”
Isabelle let out a wet laugh.
“I’ll tell him,” she whispered.
Her father grunted.
Then, after a long pause, he added,
“That day… you still my daughter.”
Isabelle froze.
Her breath caught.
The words were simple.
But they hit like a blessing.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m still your daughter.”
Her father nodded once.
As if confirming it to himself.
That night, Isabelle recorded the Arabic sentence for him.
Slow.
Clear.
Syllable by syllable.
Her voice was soft.
Not because she was shy.
Because she felt the weight of what she was giving him.
A tool.
A rope.
A way to stand in a place that was unfamiliar.
She sent it to her father.
He replied with one word.
Dad: Ok.
Isabelle stared at the message.
Ok.
Her father’s love always looked like that.
Short.
Sharp.
But steady.
Isabelle placed her phone down.
She laid her prayer mat.
She prayed.
And when her forehead touched the ground, she whispered,
“Ya Allah… thank you for softening what I thought would never soften.”
She rose.
She exhaled.
The nikah was coming.
The day was coming.
The sentence would be spoken.
Not perfectly.
But with intention.
With love.
With a father who chose to practice.
And Isabelle understood:
Sometimes acceptance wasn’t loud.
Sometimes it was a man in a serious-talk shirt, replaying an Arabic voice note at night–
because he refused to let his daughter walk into her future alone.