Gathered around the table, my grandmother piled multiple dishes in front of me, even when I said I was good, she put even more. My grandparents invited us and my in-laws to dinner tonight in wake of everything that happened, feeling it necessary to bring the family together during a time of distress and confusion.

The smiling faces around the table lit the house in an illuminating noor (light), one that resembled the purity, congenial atmosphere of angels, a room full of love and affection. My grandparents were old, wrinkling through time as their days shortened, yet the joy in their eyes was almost youthful, full of energy not known to the elderly. Their lips still curved into those heart-warming smiles that saved me from my pit of darkness all those years ago.

Without them, I would have been chained to a torture far worse than anything else. Gavlik's misleading accusations and devious schemes were nothing in comparison to my youth.

I glanced around the table again, hearing the soft voices of my mother-in-law, wife, and grandmother laughing under their breaths as they discussed a new beauty trend usurping the community of gurus. Tasneem scoffed in response to something her mother said, but I couldn't hear what even though she sat next to me.

My mind only focused on her effortless ease at the conversation, the elegant posture of her back and crossed legs, cladded in a light pink shirt, flowing like the petals of a lily whisking through a tranquil pond, her beauty the reflection against the crystal clarity of water.

Her top was striped, black and white, loosely draped on her shoulders, chest, and hips. There was no outline to a visible eye while her rosy hijab wrapped all the way down to her front, hence guarding her modesty.

Though she scrutinized her body in the mirror at times, I could find nothing but perfection in all that she wore. She would pinch at the softness of her belly, not realizing that her feminine allure was enough to entice me into her arms. When she was sure I left the room, I'd come back to see her scroll through endless media pages filled with models and women who were so unsatisfied with themselves that they took matters into their own hands and with their money.

I never cared for what other women did to their bodies or what they used their money for, yet seeing my wife compare herself to others killed a dormant part of me. Seeing her sigh as she glanced from her phone to our mirror hurt me in inexplicable ways like a knife to the heart. How could she ever think I'd leave her for something so shallow?

As she sat beside me, fidgeting with her sleeves and biting her lips at the compliments my grandmother couldn't help herself from saying, my impulse reacted at the unease that touched her eyes ever so delicately that no one else realized her inner turmoil. No one noticed the insecurities lacing her expression.

Except me.

Under the table, my left hand reached for her shaking fingers, grasping them firmly in my calloused ones. I heard her sharp intake of breath, but I paid little attention to it as I sipped at my soup.

"Tasneem, you truly are beautiful in anything you wear," smiled my grandmother. "Ibrahim is so lucky."

"N-No, I'm just like everyone else," she said in a meek voice, bashful at the attention.

I cleared my throat, putting my utensil down. Glancing towards my wife, I was shocked to see the sadness that still ensnared her visage, the stress that was still evident in her storming eyes, cloudy with her inner fear. I knew what she needed from me. I squeezed her hand in reassurance, but she seemed idle to my touch.

Once my grandmother and mother-in-law lost themselves in another conversation and the males at the table bonded over a popular Muslim speaker, I leaned over towards Tasneem, bringing my mouth close to her hijab, voice soft to comfort her.

"Tasneem, you are beautiful. Don't compare yourself to anyone. Allah made you perfect, and I find you to be the most perfect," I whispered, heart drumming against my chest as it did whenever I came this close to her. She had an effect on me like an enchantment, a spell that subdued my usual domineering personality.

How could she not see how perfect she is?

"I know," she sighed, grudgingly accepting my words. She turned to me with a frown. "But there are times where it's hard."

My brows furrowed, and I leaned back into my seat, tilting my head at her. "Why?" I asked.

"Well," Tasneem began quietly, playing with the hems of her sleeves again and biting her lip nervously, "there's a lot of more capable women out there, ones that accomplished so much more... at least in comparison to me."

"So what?"

"Look at who you are, Ibrahim. You're a name that everyone knows. Don't you wonder if some other woman with a similar status to you would be able to negate the media attention?" she questioned, voice drifting into a dejected, barely audible whisper.

I brought her soft hands to my lips, placing a gentle, feather-like kiss against it. My eyes slowly lifted to her pained expression, sincerity and sympathy rang through my mind like warning bells, an alert that my wife needed to hear more than just my words. After some politicians and favorable people in pop culture sought to tear apart her reputation, it was only natural for her to struggle and come to terms with this new lifestyle, one I dragged her into.

"No one would be better suited as my wife than you," I said softly. "You did the impossible, Tasneem. It takes a lot of courage to defend someone like me, and you managed to do it so elegantly that people who watched your speech and understood it were left speechless."

She stayed silent.

I wanted to press on, wanted to make her see every part of her I loved, wanted to make her understand how important she was to me. Although I held her hand, we felt miles apart, stretched between an eternity and a present, lost in a valley clouded by the sneers and disapproval of others. If we were a normal Muslim-American couple, their words would never bother us, yet the haunting voices only proved as a reminder that Tasneem and I would always be different.

Difference was not always bad though. Sometimes, difference caused the sparks of awareness. Before this scandal and Tasneem's speech, people didn't care about Islam and the Sharia's (Islamic law) guidelines for many aspects of society. Through our efforts, we managed to shine a light into our deen (religion), brightening the hearts of millions and encouraging a sense of community amongst the Muslims.

Muslims were protesting, sending letters to their congressmen and congresswomen, urging their peers to listen to both sides not just one. Fake news had been an issue for a while, but in the wake of these events, the focus shifted back to credible sources and how to find them. We suffered at the hands of millions, yet we were also elevated by more.

This was community. This was progress.

"Tasneem," I urged gently, a smile touching the corner of my lips. "If it wasn't for you, I'd still be trapped in my own madness. I would lose myself to the past instead of focusing on the present, on you. I... I love you."

She tensed, closing her eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she whispered to herself, opening her eyes to show the glazed tears that etched across the warmth of her brown eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with you, sweetheart. I should have been showing you how much I care," I admitted, averting my gaze in shame. "I was so focused on everything else that I forgot to be there for the one person who matters most."

Tasneem lightly slapped my shoulder, her visage losing its gloomy, dark shadows and illuminating the golden tan of her skin, the glow of a woman not trapped by society, one who followed her dreams and thrived in her individuality. My wife was a woman who guarded her modesty with an iron fist, running through all the hurdles in her path with only love and Allah in her heart.

Without Allah, nothing was possible.

"What?" I questioned, raising a brow at her sudden shift in mood.

Tasneem smiled, taking my breath away with her beauty. "You take care of everyone, Ibrahim. Don't apologize for being a man of candor and responsibility."

"But you've been so sad this week."

"I was," she acknowledged, a faraway look entering her brown eyes like splintered remnants of her thoughts slowly losing their grip on her joy. Tasneem met my gaze, smiling at me as if I was the only man in the world, as if her heart moved to the rhythm of mine. Her gaze drove me crazy, made me crave more. "In all honesty, having you here with me like this is enough to make all the bad thoughts go away. I guess I've been so consumed by the negativity."

"Forget about them. In this lifestyle, there is always backlash for any decision we make. I had times when the media went into uproar at me rejecting some American businessmen due to their lack of integrity in the field," I said.

"How did you deal with it?" she asked, eyes wide and curious, doe-like and innocent.

"I sued them for slander."

She pursued her lips. "Really?" she questioned, shaking her head.

I shrugged, taking another sip of my soup. "I'm serious. If you're gonna talk, you should be more than willing to accept the consequences of free speech."

"I'm not sure that's how it works."

A slow, dark smile crossed my lips. "There's always a way with private enterprises," I said. "The line isn't that thin if you have a good lawyer."

"Business is cruel," she sighed.

"Ah," my grandfather interjected, staring fondly at me from his seat as nostalgia entered his eyes. "I remember those days. Business isn't supposed to be cruel. It only becomes vile when corruption paves a path."

Bashir furrowed his brows, suddenly attentive as the rest of the table. The side conversations hushed, eyes glimmering with curiosity from my in-laws. They filled with wonder at a world unknown to them. They weren't involved in the messy turmoil of politics or the winding roads of enterprises. In some form, they were lucky.

When investing so much of my life into Tarkan Industries, my heart and soul were swallowed underneath the company's successes and setbacks. There were unwritten rules to business, and if one could not adapt, they fell through the shallow cavity of humanity, into the palms of puppet masters. They were toyed with, abused, and violated of their rights.

Survival of the fittest never applied anything more than a capitalist society. It was always every man for himself. My stoic expression was perfected over the years because one slip meant my damnation. One slip and my company suffered.

I'd seen aspiring young businessmen run into the awaiting arms of deceit and mischief. They were naive, believing that everyone had good intentions, hoping that people were as honest as their lips.

Guarded as I was, my grandfather's kind brown eyes brightened, his hoarse voice retelling a story that was centuries old and permanently ingrained into the minds of young Muslim children, a story I forgot among the perfunctory tasks of a busy life marred with calamities.

"Ibrahim, do you remember that story I told you when you were young?" he asked, gaze meeting mine.

"Grandpa," I tried gently. "I'm not sure if a childhood story could fix our problems in the company."

"Oh?" he challenged, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Then perhaps I should remind you about the man who shared your name before you."

Bashir perked up, grin bright and wide. "I know this one!" he said excitedly, raising his hand as if were in school. "It's about Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him)."

"Good job, kiddo," I smiled a little too sweetly. "If only you were this eager with your Quranic studies."

"Ibrahim, stop that," chided my grandmother with a pointed look.

"My apologies."

Bashir scowled. "He's doing it again."

"Listen to your grandfather, Bashir," I reproached. "He's speaking."

Grudgingly, he kept his mouth shut, giving me one last dirty look. I hid my smile, enjoying our small banters.

After the school incident, it took a lot of effort to bring light back into Bashir's eyes, to reassure his worries after the traumatic beating. He was a special kid, one who could continue through life without another glance at the past. Even when his faith was tested at its limits, he remembered all that I taught him, all the hours I spent reminding him of Allah.

It all stuck with him.

My grandfather's voice was soft, gentle like a comforting breeze, an ointment to our wounds from the past few days. "When Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him) was old and graying, Allah sent him a message. The archangel Jibreel (peace be upon him) told Ibrahim that he had two news to tell him: one was bad, and one was good.

"Obviously, Ibrahim (peace be upon him) wanted the good news first, so he was told that his barren wife Sarah would be blessed with a baby who we would come to know as Prophet Ishaq (peace be upon him)," he retold, his voice mirroring the calming tone that used to read me bedtime stories whenever he visited Turkey.

"Grandpa, we already know this," interrupted Bashir, placing his chin onto the palm of his hands. "Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him) doesn't believe the angel, but then Allah says the child is a gift and blessing, a way to prove that Allah truly is the Creator of all miracles." Remembering my earlier words, Bashir brightened and quickly turned to me as he stuck out his tongue. "See? I do remember my Quranic studies."

My family and Tasneem's stifled their laughter.

This little brat.

Raising an amused brow, my grandfather chuckled deeply. "Yes, you're absolutely correct, but remember there was two news. Do you know what the bad news was?" he asked.

Bashir shook his head, exchanging a glance with me. In all honesty, I didn't remember what the bad news was either. I was curious to find out, and unconsciously I moved forward in my seat, completely engrossed in the story. My heart thumped to the building anticipation, a childish giddiness awakening at the familiarity of the tale, a reminder of what I once had.

Distracted by the temptations of the world, I forgot about the foundations of my faith, the small bits that pieced my morals together.

Muslim children grew up with these stories, and in their dreams they would remember the hushed echoes of their parents' retelling of Islamic history. Islam was rich in its culture from inside the Qur'an and outside it. Their ears hummed to their parents' voices as their eyes greedily imagined a time unlike theirs.

I remembered the feeling so well, so vividly. I remembered the excitement I felt every night whenever my grandparents visited. Although the memory of my parents would always be painful, their legacies and all their teachings lived on, ingrained into the back of my mind. My grandparents told these stories to my parents, and my parents told them to me, and I would tell them to my children one day In Shaa Allah (if God wills it).

Generation to generation, our prophets' tales would live on. There was no chance in forgetting when their stories were written in stone, unbending to relativity of time, unnerved by modern philosophies.

My grandfather continued a silence ensued, sharing a knowing glint with my in-laws and my grandmother. "The bad news was that a village that ignored Prophet Ibrahim's call to Allah would be destroyed. The second Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him) heard the words escape the angel, he begged Allah to change the fate of those people, to save them.

"Imagine the sympathy that resonated through him. Imagine the purity in his heart to pray for the safety of people who shunned him, who hurt him, who slandered against him. The people of this village hated Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him) so much that when a woman went into labor, she would curse his name and pray to stay alive just to torment him more. That was the hatred they felt towards this man."

"SubhanAllah (God is perfect)," Tasneem whispered, finger tapping at her lips. "They hated him, and he still prayed for them. He still wished for the best for his enemies."

My grandfather eagerly nodded at her understanding. "Very good, Tasneem. What you described is the prime attribute of a Muslim. Although these villagers humiliated and tormented Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him), he still begged for their safety even though Allah told him that he would be given a son. This quality is the ability to sympathize with others, to understand their pain, to open one's heart to another.

"As Muslims, we need to be willing to put our ego and pride aside so that our hearts may understand the sufferings of others, so that we may share their heartache with them. Once we understand another's pain, then we can comfort and advise. That is how friendship grows, and that is how Muslims should be," he smiled, glancing at me.

I stayed silent, letting his ancient words of wisdom sink into my skin, soaking in his gesture. Indirectly, my grandfather was advising me, like he always did, about my company. He wanted me to turn the tables, change the tides in a way that would baffle my enemies.

His soft, raspy voice cut through my thoughts again. "When we hear these stories, it's best to reflect. Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him) did anything that Allah asked him to do because he was so faithful to his deen (religion). He left his wife in the dessert with his only child at the time. He almost slaughtered his son. He endured the physical and emotional torture of his people. It was his belief in Allah that allowed him to go through all this.

"Yet when Allah gave news of the destruction of his enemies, he begged Allah to save them. This story is told to us to emphasize the qualities of a pious Muslim, to highlight a heart free of any ill will towards others. Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him) had a heart ripe with forgiveness. His ability to understand others helped him forgive those who wronged him and ultimately changed the hearts of those who despised him," he finished thoughtfully as he picked up his utensil again.

I couldn't help myself this time. "Is that what you want me to do?" I questioned him, voice soft amongst the lingering silence. "After everything Gavlik did to me, you want me to forgive?"

My tone was not accusing nor was it hurtful. Instead, my tone was that of a child, meek and lost. My chest twisted painfully at the thought of Gavlik escaping without any way to atone for his actions, yet my heart sang a different tune, humming with a need to honor my name.

If the prophet that shared my name could forgive the worst of people, then why couldn't I?

I felt Tasneem's gaze on me. She was worried, and she had every reason to be. Under the table, her hand grasped mine, squeezing it in her warmth, her comfort. I stared at her, eyes softening at the sight of her small, supportive smile. I searched her visage for an answer.

Tasneem shared the same sentiment as my grandfather. I lost myself in the dark, toasty brown of her eyes, seeing myself in the reflection, seeing my ambivalence in her sweet smile. Although Gavlik caused our whole family pain, no one harbored any hatred towards him, not even Tasneem.