After the Sentence
Chapter 49 – After the Sentence
After the nikah, everyone expected celebration.
Laughter.
Photos.
Food.
A kind of happiness that made the hurt disappear.
But Isabelle learned something that day:
Joy and grief can stand in the same room.
And neither one cancels the other.
They moved from the nikah room to a small function area nearby.
Simple refreshments.
Dates.
Cakes.
Tea.
Nothing extravagant.
Just enough to mark a moment.
Crystal tried to turn it into a full wedding reception anyway.
“WHERE IS THE PHOTOBOOTH?” she demanded.
Ivan looked at her like she was a systems error.
“There was never a photobooth,” he said.
Crystal slapped his arm.
“THEN WE BECOME THE PHOTOBOOTH.”
Isabelle laughed until her eyes watered again.
She kept wiping her cheeks.
Her makeup survived.
Barely.
Her father watched from a corner.
Arms crossed.
Face unreadable.
The serious-talk shirt now looked like armor.
Isabelle’s mother sat beside him.
Quiet.
Eyes red.
But present.
Still present.
Isabelle kept glancing at them.
Because she was afraid.
Afraid her father would suddenly stand up and say:
I can’t.
I regret.
This was a mistake.
But he didn’t.
He stayed.
And staying was a kind of blessing.
Aleem’s mother approached Isabelle’s parents with a small plate.
“Have some,” she said softly.
Isabelle’s mother hesitated.
Then she took it.
Not smiling.
But not refusing.
Aleem’s father offered tea to Isabelle’s father.
Isabelle’s father waved him off.
Then, after a second, he accepted.
The cup sat in his hand like an unfamiliar object.
But he held it.
Isabelle watched the two mothers.
The two fathers.
Two worlds trying to occupy the same air without tearing it.
This–
this was the real ceremony.
Not the sentence.
The attempt.
A photographer approached.
Not a fancy one.
A friend of Aleem’s family.
He asked gently,
“Family photo?”
Isabelle froze.
Her mother stiffened.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
Family photo.
Again.
But this time, it wasn’t grandmother forcing.
This time, it would be a choice.
Aleem’s mother glanced at Isabelle’s mother.
“Is it okay?” she asked softly.
Isabelle’s mother’s eyes filled.
She looked at Isabelle.
Then she looked at Aleem.
Then she looked at Isabelle’s father.
Her father stared at the floor.
His jaw working.
Then he muttered,
“Take lah.”
Isabelle’s breath caught.
Take lah.
Permission.
They stood.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Isabelle in the middle.
Aleem beside her.
Isabelle’s parents on her other side.
Aleem’s parents on his.
Two families.
One frame.
Crystal was behind them making faces.
Ivan tried to pull her away.
Crystal hissed,
“LET ME BE BACKGROUND FLAVOR.”
Isabelle laughed softly.
The photographer counted.
“One, two, three–”
Flash.
Isabelle blinked.
In that second, she felt it.
Not full acceptance.
But… a moment of unity.
A pause where nobody was fighting.
A pause where everybody was simply there.
After photos, ABIX pulled them aside.
Crystal hugged Isabelle so tightly Isabelle squeaked.
“WIFE,” Crystal whispered dramatically. “WIFE. I can’t believe it.”
Isabelle laughed.
“I can,” Ivan said, deadpan.
Crystal glared.
“YOU ARE ROBOT.”
Ivan shrugged.
“Statistically likely outcome,” he said.
Aleem snorted quietly.
Isabelle leaned into the chaos.
Because ABIX chaos was safe.
It made the room lighter.
It made the grief easier to carry.
But later, when people began leaving, Isabelle noticed her father standing alone near the corridor.
Not socializing.
Not eating.
Just… watching.
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
She knew that posture.
A man holding his emotions by force.
Isabelle glanced at Aleem.
Aleem nodded slightly.
Go.
Isabelle walked over.
Slow.
Not rushing.
She stood beside her father.
He didn’t look at her.
The corridor was quiet.
A distant hum of voices behind them.
Isabelle swallowed.
“Pa,” she whispered.
Her father’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t answer.
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For today.”
Her father exhaled through his nose.
“Hmph,” he grunted.
Then he muttered,
“Don’t thank like I do big favor.”
Isabelle blinked.
Her father continued, voice rough.
“I’m your father,” he said. “I do what father do.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned.
Her father’s throat moved.
He stared at the wall.
Then he said quietly,
“I still feel… angry.”
Isabelle’s chest tightened.
“I know,” she whispered.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“You know?”
Isabelle nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And you’re allowed to.”
Her father’s jaw clenched.
He looked away.
Then he muttered,
“I don’t like this,” he admitted. “I don’t like mosque. I don’t like Arabic. I don’t like people say alham… all those.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
“I know,” she whispered.
Her father’s voice cracked slightly.
“But I like you,” he said.
The sentence hit Isabelle like a hand to the chest.
Her father continued quickly, as if embarrassed.
“You are my daughter,” he muttered. “You happy, then… okay.”
Okay.
Again.
The strongest word in their house.
Isabelle’s eyes spilled.
She covered her mouth.
Her father glanced at her.
He frowned.
“Don’t cry,” he muttered. “Later Aleem think I bully you.”
Isabelle laughed through tears.
“He already thinks you’re scary,” she whispered.
Her father snorted.
“Good,” he muttered.
Isabelle’s chest cracked wider.
Then her father said quietly,
“After dinner you come home,” he reminded. “We eat together.”
Isabelle nodded.
“I will,” she whispered.
Her father exhaled.
Then he added, almost too quietly,
“Today… when I say sentence… I was shaking.”
Isabelle froze.
Her father admitted weakness.
Rare.
He swallowed.
“Not because I scared of Arabic,” he muttered. “Because… I felt like I’m losing you.”
Isabelle’s throat tightened.
Her father stared at the wall.
Then he said, low,
“But when you look at me after… you still look like my Belle.”
Isabelle’s chest broke.
She reached for his arm.
Her father stiffened.
Then, slowly, he didn’t pull away.
Isabelle whispered,
“I’m still your Belle.”
Her father’s jaw tightened.
He nodded once.
Then he muttered,
“Okay.”
Ok.
Permission.
Blessing.
Truce.
Love.
All in one.
When Isabelle returned to the function area, Aleem was waiting.
He didn’t ask what her father said.
He didn’t demand details.
He simply looked at her eyes.
“Okay?” he asked softly.
Isabelle nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “He said… okay.”
Aleem’s shoulders lowered.
Relief.
He didn’t smile widely.
He just exhaled.
“Alhamdulillah,” he whispered.
Isabelle smiled.
“Not too loud,” she teased.
Aleem’s lips twitched.
“Okay,” he murmured.
They stood together.
Husband.
Wife.
Not as a fantasy.
As a responsibility.
As a promise.
And as they walked back into the noise of ABIX and family, Isabelle realized:
The nikah had been a sentence.
But marriage–
marriage would be everything after.
The after was where love proved itself.
In patience.
In boundaries.
In keeping promises.
In not taking.
In honoring.
In coming home.
And Isabelle, holding Aleem’s hand, felt ready.
Not because it would be easy.
But because she wasn’t alone.