Nikah
Chapter 48 – Nikah
The morning came too quickly.
Not with romance.
With alarms.
With the smell of steam from an iron.
With Isabelle’s mother knocking too early because she couldn’t sit still.
“Belle,” her mother whispered through the door. “Wake up.”
Isabelle opened her eyes.
Her heart was already beating too fast.
Today.
She sat up slowly.
Her hands trembled.
Then she breathed.
In.
Out.
She whispered,
“Bismillah.”
And stood.
In the living room, Isabelle’s father was already dressed.
Serious-talk shirt.
Now paired with serious-talk trousers.
Isabelle almost laughed.
Almost.
Her father stood by the window, phone in his hand.
He wasn’t scrolling.
He was replaying.
Isabelle’s voice note.
Arabic.
Slow.
He paused it when Isabelle walked out.
He didn’t look at her.
He just muttered,
“Eat first.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her mother placed food on the table.
Simple.
Not celebratory.
More like fuel.
Isabelle ate slowly.
Her mother watched her like she was memorizing her face.
Her father ate quickly like he wanted to get it over with.
No one said,
I’m happy.
But no one ran.
That was love.
Showing up.
At the mosque, the air felt different.
Cool.
Quiet.
Clean.
Not because mosques were magical.
Because people treated them with intention.
Aleem was waiting outside.
Not in the doorway.
Not blocking.
Just… waiting like a man who knew he was stepping into someone else’s family space.
When he saw Isabelle, his eyes softened.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t reach for her hand.
He just looked.
Like he was reminding himself:
She’s here.
She chose this.
He greeted Isabelle’s parents first.
“Uncle. Aunty.”
Isabelle’s father nodded.
Isabelle’s mother nodded weakly.
Aleem’s parents arrived shortly after.
His mother looked calm.
His father looked steady.
They greeted Isabelle’s parents respectfully.
No big smiles.
No triumphant energy.
Just… careful kindness.
ABIX arrived too.
Crystal was in pastel, eyes already watery.
Ivan carried a small bag with tissues like an emergency responder.
They stayed at the edge.
Not forcing themselves into family space.
But present.
Watching.
Ready.
The nikah room was small.
Not the grand hall.
A private space.
Soft carpet.
A low table.
Chairs placed neatly.
Isabelle’s parents sat together.
Isabelle’s mother clutched her bag.
Isabelle’s father sat upright, phone face down, like he refused to rely on it now.
Aleem sat opposite Isabelle’s father.
Not relaxed.
Not smiling too much.
Serious.
Isabelle sat slightly behind her parents.
Because today, she wasn’t the one speaking the main sentence.
Today, her father would.
The asatizah entered.
He greeted.
He spoke calmly.
He explained again, gently.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t dramatize.
He said the words like they were simply true.
And then the room arrived at the moment.
The moment that had been practiced.
The moment that had been feared.
The moment that was not about languages or rituals.
It was about a father.
And a daughter.
And a man who wanted to become family.
The asatizah looked at Isabelle’s father.
“Uncle,” he said softly, “are you ready?”
Isabelle’s father’s jaw tightened.
He nodded once.
His hand trembled slightly.
Then he looked at Aleem.
His gaze was sharp.
Not hateful.
Protective.
Aleem met it.
No flinching.
No arrogance.
Just respect.
The asatizah guided gently.
Isabelle’s father reached for Aleem’s hand.
Isabelle’s heart slammed.
This.
This was the bridge.
Her father’s hand held Aleem’s hand.
A grip.
Not warm.
But firm.
A transfer.
Not of ownership.
But of responsibility.
Isabelle’s mother inhaled sharply.
Tears already forming.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father’s voice was rough.
He began.
The Arabic words came.
Not perfect.
Accent present.
Syllables slightly stiff.
But clear.
Intention clear.
The room held its breath.
Isabelle stared at her father’s mouth.
At the way he forced the unfamiliar sounds out like he refused to fail.
Aleem listened like his life depended on it.
And when Isabelle’s father finished, the room went silent.
A fraction.
A heartbeat.
Then Aleem responded.
His voice was steady.
Clear.
Confident.
He accepted.
He repeated.
He sealed it.
The asatizah smiled.
“Alhamdulillah,” he said.
The witnesses echoed it softly.
Not loud.
Not triumphant.
Just relieved.
Isabelle felt her chest crack.
Her eyes burned.
She covered her mouth.
Not because she was shocked.
Because it was done.
The sentence had been spoken.
Her father had done it.
Her mother was still here.
Aleem was still steady.
And she–
she was now a wife.
Isabelle’s mother cried.
Not quietly.
Not dramatically.
Just… tears that couldn’t be held.
Isabelle moved instinctively toward her.
But her father lifted a hand slightly.
Not stopping her.
Just… signaling.
Wait.
He needed a second.
Isabelle froze.
Her father released Aleem’s hand.
He looked down at his own palm.
Like it was unfamiliar.
Then he looked at Isabelle.
His eyes were tired.
Wet.
He cleared his throat roughly.
Then he said quietly,
“Okay.”
Just one word.
But it held everything.
Okay.
He showed up.
He spoke.
He did it.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Her father looked away.
He muttered,
“Don’t cry too much. Makeup.”
Isabelle blinked.
Then she laughed through tears.
Even her father was copying Crystal now.
Isabelle’s mother sobbed harder.
Isabelle went to her mother.
She hugged her.
Her mother clung to her.
Full.
Not halfway.
Full.
She whispered,
“My baby…”
Isabelle’s chest cracked.
“I’m here,” Isabelle whispered. “I’m here.”
Aleem remained seated.
He didn’t rush in.
He let the mother-daughter moment exist.
He respected it.
Only when Isabelle’s mother loosened her grip did Aleem stand.
He approached Isabelle’s father.
He bowed slightly.
Then he said, voice low,
“Thank you, Dad.”
The word.
Again.
This time allowed.
Isabelle’s heart slammed.
Isabelle’s father stiffened.
His jaw tightened.
Then he grunted.
“Hmph.”
But he didn’t correct.
He didn’t reject.
He only muttered,
“Take care.”
Aleem bowed.
“I will,” he said.
And then Aleem turned to Isabelle’s mother.
He bowed slightly.
“Aunty,” he said, voice gentle, “thank you for coming. Thank you for trusting.”
Isabelle’s mother cried harder.
She nodded.
“I don’t trust,” she sobbed. “I just… I love her.”
Aleem’s eyes softened.
“I know,” he whispered. “And I will honor that love.”
Isabelle felt her chest tighten.
Honor.
Not replace.
Honor.
Outside the room, ABIX finally allowed themselves to be loud.
Crystal saw Isabelle and burst.
“BELLE! WIFE ALREADY?!”
Isabelle laughed.
Ivan handed tissues.
Crystal cried anyway.
Aleem’s mother hugged Isabelle gently.
Not claiming.
Welcoming.
Aleem’s father shook Isabelle’s father’s hand.
Longer this time.
Not just a polite grip.
A man-to-man acknowledgment.
Two fathers.
One daughter.
One son.
One responsibility.
Isabelle looked around.
Her mother’s red eyes.
Her father’s stiff posture.
Aleem’s calm face.
Crystal’s dramatic tears.
Ivan’s quiet steadiness.
And Isabelle realized:
This was her nikah.
Not perfect.
Not painless.
But held.
A love story written in small mercies.
In practiced sentences.
In one-word permissions.
In grief that still chose to show up.
Isabelle’s hand found Aleem’s.
This time, in public.
No hiding.
Aleem squeezed once.
Not claiming.
Just steady.
And Isabelle whispered,
“Alhamdulillah.”