My fingers scribbled against the thin lined papers, black ink pen gliding smoothly across the page like a swipe of paint against an untouched canvas. The woman in front of me, Mrs. Huckleberry, told me in great detail every aspect of her new bakery that she wanted to change, from the creaking floors to the stained walls and broken glass. Her excited voice bubbled continuously, and I raced against time just trying to copy everything.

"Oh," she said, blue eyes shining,"don't forget to rearrange some of the furniture here. This bakery is very outdated and I want to be up to date with the times."

A woman in her late forties with too many children to count on one finger, Mrs. Huckleberry had passions that surpassed most women in my life.

She came from a humble background, parents being a part of a lower middle class, where she face discrimination for her skin color and her marriage to a white man as an African-American woman. With short, curly hair, skin as dark as cocoa, and a broad, muscular body, she could intimidate any person who came into her bakery to seek advantage of her.

I admired her.

"I think I got it," I smiled, showing her my notepad. "I assume you're trying to achieve a kawaii cupcake type look."

"Yes!" she beamed. "That's exactly the theme I want. Man, you're good."

"I should hope so," I nervously laughed, "or else they wouldn't have given me this job."

After a couple more hours of discussion, I had quickly begun my rough sketch of everything that Mrs. Huckleberry wanted. My fingers hurriedly drew the jagged lines to positions, curving at the details and definite vectors that I created. On the side, I did some light math about the heights, widths, and approximated lengths of the new furniture, stopping every few minutes to get Mrs. Huckleberry's approval.

"This looks incredible," she said. "Do you know when this design could be done?"

I pondered for a bit. There was many things to consider, many obstacles that froze time, but there were always solutions to any hindrance in this project.

An image of Ibrahim's rain-soaked body filled my mind, and I suddenly jolted.

A pounding headache slammed against my skull as more images filed one after the other, his work-torn lips thin from exhausted and pale skin dark with misery. There were solutions to the problems I had, but Ibrahim was out of my reach, out of my control.

Mrs. Huckleberry furrowed her brows at me, visibly confused.

Heat rose to my cheeks. "Sorry," I apologized, "so if my calculations are right and there are no disturbances, I estimate three or four months for all the renovations that you asked for. Is that good?"

"Yes, that's perfect!"

I smiled, pulling out the contract forms. "I just need a couple signatures and a check for the fee."

Within minutes, I had scored myself a new client, one who was more than eager to have me design her new bakery. She didn't care about the scandal that swept all media outlets or that my husband was a famous Muslim CEO caught in the middle of it. She didn't care if I was young and seemingly inexperienced from outer appearance, but rather Mrs. Huckleberry trusted me and my ability to succeed.

I wouldn't let that trust waste away.

* * * *

Slipping off my shoes, I entered our house, dragging my feet across the velvet floors that emulated the soft petals of roses, a touch of smoothness like silk. I caught an image of myself on the mirror.

My wrinkled white hijab wrapped unevenly around my head, golden skin clouding with gray fatigue and purple circles resting under my eyes. The spark that usually lit my brown irises had reduced to a dull, ordinary russet. I sighed, harshly turning my cheek in the other direction.

I hated how stress poisoned my flesh and cut my vibrant personality into pieces.

All I could think about was my husband. No matter how many times I tried to ignore those nagging, consistent thoughts, they would always run towards me with potent force, the kind that defied the laws of Newton. There was no weight balancing out our heavy equation. In the eyes of America, Ibrahim and I stood stagnant against all odds.

The clock chimed. Allahu Akbar Allahu Akbar.

It was Asr time. Perfect, I thought, because I really need Allah right now, anything to lift this ballast off my chest.

I pulled the Turkish prayer mats we stacked neatly in one corner of our living room. Unrolling the maroon colored one, silhouette images of the Ka'ba welcomed me, its comforting nature luring me to stand before my Lord, my Creator.

With lips whispering gentle words, I let the serenity of spirituality guide me, leaving all my worries and stress behind as I lifted my hands and began to pray. It was difficult to focus, but I still tried, still shred through the barriers until my heart completely submitted to Allah, until nothing else mattered except my prayer.

To a Muslim's life, prayer was essential. It provided the ease and comfort we all need whenever we had torturous days that made one scream and lash out in frustration. Prayer cleansed the soul, cured it of any defects, protected it against tarnishing blemishes by shaytan (satan). Without prayer, a Muslim would be lost with no direction, no relief, and most of all no satisfaction.

My prayer created a bond with my Lord, and I strengthened the relationship every time I did something with the intention to please Allah. Some Americans would laugh at my submission, calling me weak or pathetic, but believing in Allah made me neither of those.

Belief in my Creator shaped me into the honorable woman I was, the loving daughter, the faithful wife, and perhaps one day the generous mother.

Although You have given me many trials so soon, Allah, I trust that You will help me. You never abandoned me before, and I know You won't now.

* * * *

While I was praying, I didn't notice that Ibrahim came home, forcing his tired eyes awake as his body weakened with each passing second. I was putting the prayer mat away and taking off my hijab when a loud crash was heard behind me. Jolting upright, I turned to Ibrahim in horror.

"Ibrahim, careful!"

His eyes lined with despair, jaw clenched, and shoulders dropped. Usually, his dress shirt would never be wrinkled with stress nor would his sleeves be pulled back to his elbows, thus exposing the rigid muscles that pinched his arms from all those long frustrating hours to burn off his steam. If I thought my eye bags were bad, Ibrahim was on a whole new level.

Safe to say, life was not treating us too well.

Rushing to his side, I pulled his arm over my shoulder, wrapping mine around his heavy body. His weight weighed down on me, but I managed to push through the pain and screaming of my own legs, bringing Ibrahim to a couch to collapse on.

"Fuck," he muttered.

I raised a brow, standing above him. "What happened to you?"

"Gavlik and investors. They've been a pain all day," he groaned, fingers tangling themselves in his messy hair and pulling at loose, inky strands that had been isolated from the mass. "I can't even drink coffee in peace anymore. They're everywhere."

Noticing the tension that coiled his neck, I smiled sadly. He had been overworked, pushed against his limits, and harassed by all. I sat beside him, previous worries set aside as my sole attention went to comfort my husband.

"It's alright, Ibrahim," I said, grabbing his hand. "You need to take breaks. If you keep going like this, you're going to be sick. Look at you."

He shook his head. "No... I can't," strained Ibrahim through his sleep-drugged mind, illusions of dreams settling before his eyes. He blinked, forcing himself to stay alert like a prey wildly searching for its predator. "I have paperwork. I have to make the schedules. I have to look over the financial reports for a meeting. I don't have time," he ranted, attempting to raise to his feet.

"Not so fast." I pulled him down. "You're sleep-deprived. In this condition, you're no better than a college student handling a multi-million dollar company during final exam season."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes," I emphasized through my teeth, "you are."

He seemed ambivalent, weighing his options uneasily on his shoulders as the burden continued to bury him under the news and scandals, a city of falsehood growing to the size of ancient empires in his mind because to Ibrahim his empire would vanish if he stopped working. If he stopped, he wouldn't be able to pull it back. Ibrahim didn't have the energy to continue through failures, at least not by himself.

"But-"

Gently placing a finger to his lips, I gave him a warm smile. "How about we compromise?" I asked sweetly.

"I'm listening."

"You sleep for an hour or two, and then I help you with all your work."

"No."

I pouted. "I can help! I know a couple things about business."

"I know you're capable of it, but this is my responsibility," he said, bringing a hand to cradle my cheek. I leaned into his touch, feeling it tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Ibrahim's tired eyes had changed, turning into a bittersweet expression of loss and love all at once, a sea of chaos behind his dark eyes, a mix between burning coal and cocoa. "Remember what I told you at the orphanage? I have to do things on my own. I need to heal, Tasneem, and work helps me."

"You're not healing. If anything, you're making yourself suffer more."

He dropped his hand.

A brief silence ensured, tantalizing us away from reality and into our thoughts like the steering of destiny had finally chosen our paths, interwinding our lives together. Ibrahim's eyes went blank, and mine only felt genuine concern for his well-being, for his company, and for him. That calculative spark had been crushed by hours and hours and hours of endless work.

Without another word, Ibrahim rose from his seat, stretching his aching muscles. Multiple cracks rumbled throughout his body, a sign of tension in the joints and muscles. He stared down at me, impassive as usual, yet his lips curled into a small, grateful smile, and I was awestruck.

Every time he gazed at me with such appreciation and love, I felt the tremors of my own heart beat rapidly against my chest, a soothing warmth filling my insides with a lovesick and paralyzed feeling, where I couldn't imagine being anywhere but at his side. It had been so long since he last smiled, yet there he was, forcing one through his storm of darkness and slander.

"I'll take your advice to rest, but that's as far as that goes. No helping me unless I'm really screwed over."

"Deal."

Walking away, Ibrahim climbed the ladder of steps that led to the upper floors, eyes already drooping with fatigue and exhaust. You'll be okay, I thought with a smile. I'll make sure of it.

* * * *

Bashir had came home earlier form his school club, following his pursuit to a land of dream, thus collapsing on his bed and snuggling into his sheets. He only wanted to wake up for prayers.

As the whole house slept in ease, their soft snores a melody to the erect tension that still lingered the halls like a haunting, I curled up on the couch, sketchbook in hand.

I couldn't find inspiration to design when my only thoughts rested on the people I loved. Perhaps it was a fatal flaw to my character, but what right did I have to continue on like everything was normal when it wasn't?

Sighing, I closed my eyes, silently pleading to Allah. What do I do? How can I help him?

As if Allah had answered my prayers, my phone rang, vibrating on my lap. I quickly answered without checking the caller ID. "Hello?"

"Assalamualaikum!" chirped my mother, accent thick.

My mood lifted from the beloved voice of my mother, gentle and kind, a perfect display of her personality. "Waalaikumsalam," I said with a smile. "Aren't you still at the shop?"

"Yes, but I haven't spoken to you in so long. Have you forgotten about your parents already?" she joked lightly in Bangla.

"Of course not!" I laughed. "Have you seen the news lately? All I want is to have the old days back at this point."

"Oh, Tasneem," chided Mom. I could sense that she was shaking her head at me. "You know that change allows us to progress as humans and as Muslims."

"Yeah, I know, but how can I ignore how it affects everyone else?"

The idle laughter form before evaporated as a new dawn of emotions took its place, my insecurities and doubts swelling my skull with irrational thoughts about a bleeding future, where Ibrahim lost himself to insanity and Bashir trembled in fear.

My vision was dramatic, and I acknowledged that, however, our lives were just as dramatic and even more troublesome than my thoughts with horrifying consequences. If Gavlik succeeded, more than Ibrahim's job would be lost.

"Are you talking about the scandal?" asked Mom, voice soft.

"Yes."

"Ibrahim hasn't taken the news too well, right?" she continued, knowing the answer before I even told her.

"Yeah."

She sighed. "You can't blame him, Tasneem. His past was something that takes most people years of therapy to recover from. The whole world knows his secret, and it was the only thing he never wanted to think about again. He's hurting."

"I know he is, but he won't even let me help him anymore. It's like my words go through one ear and falls through the other," I said, squeezing my eyes shut as my chest tightened, a knot developing in my throat. "I... I just want him to finally come to terms with everything."

"Sometimes, the best remedy for grief is silence."

"What?"

"Let me rephrase," she clarified. "He has suffered more in his lifetime than an elderly man on his death bed. As much as you want to ease the burden, you don't understand his pain. Only Allah and Ibrahim do."

I didn't like what my mother was insinuating, but I let the fleeting thought escape me. This wasn't about what I wanted. It was about what Ibrahim needed. Although it pained me and shattered my heart to pieces to witness his misery, I had to respect his decisions and his willingness to find peace with himself. Hearing my mother say it made it feel all too real.

"So," I swallowed, "what should I do?"

"You've waited for him before to warm up to you, but now it's time for Ibrahim to find some peace, some time to heal from his trauma, and some space to grow. He's like a seedling, Tasneem. Guide him when you think he's working too hard, but give him time."

"It hurts though," I said in a meek voice, feeling tears well my eyes. "I don't want him to suffer anymore."

"Tasneem," she spoke softly, "I know it hurts, but you can't force your husband to heal. You have to be patient and show him you love him everyday. Don't let him think he's alone."

"Okay."

Oh, Allah. Give me the strength to breathe through these days, to remind Ibrahim all the reasons why I love him, and to turn to you whenever my heart hurts from patience. Ameen.

Until that moment, I had no idea what people meant when they said true love came with sacrifices. Until that moment, I had no idea that love could split my soul so painfully, yet piece it back together with ease. Ibrahim and I were like that.

We always repaired each other no matter the time, no matter the cost, no matter the problem. We were always there for one another. Allah had bestowed that blessing upon us, and now it was my turn to be there for Ibrahim.