Damian's POV

Being married had taught me two things -

One, it was like a continuous cycle of flirting and fighting - mostly flirting on my part. And two, you got to see the good, the bad and the ugly of your partner. I had no problem with seeing Mariam's ugly side - it was kind of hilarious, actually - but nothing, and I mean NOTHING could prepare you for the ugliness witnessed when your wife was in labour. Absolutely nothing. Unless you'd somehow survived the first time.

I'd survived. And now I was ready for the sequel.

Ready? Ha, more like, "already?!"

"You can do this, Mariam. If you did it before, you can do it again, In Sha Allah," these were my words of encouragement to her as she lay back in the bed with a grimace on her sweaty face, the machine beside the bed monitoring the contractions. "Think of it like a rehearsal for the big show."

"Rehearsal? Are you calling our first child a rehearsal? God, Damian, that's seriously messed up." I forgot how easily irritated Mariam got while in labour. Everything I said pissed her off. But then again, that was most days.

"Okay, forget I said that. Bad example. I'm just saying, you got this, habibti, just breathe," I kissed her hand, gripping it in mine, and Mariam shot me a wince that I interpreted to be a smile. I was about to smile back when I felt a constricting squeeze tighten around my hand and I cried out in pain as Mariam groaned.

"Why do you always do that? I don't need to be in pain too!" I pulled my poor hand away, examining the crescent shaped dents that her nails had caused.

"You have every right to suffer just as much as I do, Damian! Stop being such a baby," Mariam was breathing hard now, and the peaks on the machine were getting higher and more frequent. I was no doctor but I had a feeling that meant the contractions were becoming closer together.

"Should I call the nurse?" I asked as Mariam shut her eyes, grasping the sheets of the hospital bed, but my question wasn't necessary as a few seconds later, a nurse walked, took one look at the machine and said, "She's almost ready."

"Wait, what? But I'm not ready," I whined, just as Mariam let out a loud shriek, and the nurse gave me a sympathetic smile.

"You never are on the first go," she said.

"It's our second, actually," I corrected, and she frowned.

"In that case, stop whining and man up! Your wife's going into the delivery room soon." The nurse's words shook me up a bit, and I was stunned for a moment, until a pang of pain shot up my arm and I looked down to see Mariam's fingers curled around my forearm.

"What did I tell you about doing that?" I complained.

"No pain, no gain, mate," Mariam growled, and I couldn't help letting out a laugh. "You wouldn't be laughing if you felt what I was feeling."

I stopped laughing immediately and nodded. "You're right, I'm sorry." I was about to reach out and touch her cheek when she screeched, "Don't touch me!" and I reeled back, a little startled, but then I became confused when she mumbled, "Hold me, habibi, it hurts."

As I held her, I made du'aa to make it easy for her and murmured Qasida Burda, which was one of my favourite nasheeds that I had learnt by heart, because it was so beautiful. This seemed to calm Mariam down a bit but every so often she would moan or whimper in discomfort. Alhamdulillah she was strong enough not to need an epidural or other drugs that would ease her pain but make her semi-conscious during the birth.

"We're taking her in!" a doctor announced, and suddenly I was forced to break away from her as they wheeled the bed out the private room and down to the delivery room. I never let go of Mariam's hand as she was wheeled down the hallway, and when the doctor asked me if I wished to stay with my wife for the delivery, I replied, "Is that even a question? Of course!"

"Good to see you've taken my advice," the nurse from earlier smiled at me. I forced a smile back as I tried to suppress the anxious feeling that twisted my stomach.

"Damian, are mama and baba coming?" Mariam suddenly seemed like a little kid, her eyes large and filled with vulnerability as she asked, and I nodded.

"Yes, I called them, they should be here soon," I assured her, and I saw her visibly relax.

"And Imran's at kinder," she murmured while the doctors prepped her up for the delivery, and the only way I could tell she was in pain was by the pinch in her brow and the way she squeezed my hand. I might have complained about it before, but I had learned a third thing about marriage: it was about sacrifice, and if my hand had to suffer in order for her to have an outlet for her pain, then so be it. I would give up my whole body so she could never feel pain again, but of course all I could do was rely on Allah to ease her suffering.

"Everyone will be here when you get out, In Sha Allah," I told her, pressing my lips to her hand. I noticed my fingers flash an alarming shade of purple as she squeezed, but I ignored it. Sacrifice, I reminded myself.

"In Sha All- aaagghh!" Mariam suddenly screamed out, and I barely had time to mentally prep myself that this was happening. I was going to be a father - again.

"What's the Arabic word for push?" I asked Mariam as a way of distracting her while I dabbed her forehead with a towel, and Mariam grunted.

"Why are you asking that right - oh. It's - aaaaagh! Idfa' means push,' Mariam puffed out finally, so I tried it on my tongue, and when the nurse told her to push, I told her to idfa'.

"I can see its head!" the doctor declared.

"How do you say that in Arabic?" I asked Mariam, but she just yelled some more, and among those yells I heard, "You're more annoying than distracting, Damian!"

"I'm just trying to help you," I insisted. "And learn new words."

"You're so selfish! Using this situation to learn Arabic - you are so dead, Dam-dam!"

I couldn't help laughing at how infuriated she was but also how ridiculous she sounded, especially when she said, "Dam-dam." Normally I would've retaliated whenever she used that stupid nickname (thanks a lot, Tracey) but due to the current situation, I let it slide.

"I'm not being selfish at all. If anything, I'm trying to understand you better," I continued gently, and Mariam just glared at me.

"You don't understand anything! And you will never understand what I have to go through, so damn you, Dam-dam! Damn you!"

"I really wish I could video you right now," I laughed, and Mariam shot me a glowering look.

"Don't you dare even try."

My distractions worked in the end, for soon enough, after a lot of pushing and squeezing, the doctor had managed to pull out the baby. We already knew it was going to be a girl, since we both agreed that we couldn't wait to find out, but we hadn't decided on the name yet.

"Bismillahi Masha'allah, she is beautiful!" Mariam's mother held my daughter in her arms, just as she had done with Imran, and I had to agree she was. Mariam had been asleep before, but as I laced my fingers with hers her eyes fluttered open and she smiled, looking peaceful.

"Can I hold her, Immi?" Mariam reached out her arms for her mother to place the sleeping baby there, and together we admired this small bundle of joy we had been blessed with, this tiny human being created from a single blood clot. Alhamdulillah, the doctors had pronounced her in perfect health, with the average weight of a baby born right on time.

"Did you read the adhaan to her?" she asked me, and I nodded.

"I did. As well as the Fatiha, just like with Imran," as soon as those words left my mouth there was the sound of tiny footsteps stamping on the linoleum floors and the curtain was wrenched sideways to reveal the little man himself, eager to meet the new addition to the family.

"Lemme see! Lemme see her!" Imran ran up to the bed and let out a gasp. "Wow, she's so small!"

"All babies start small," Mariam told him.

"We brought balloons!" Zeinab, who had brought Imran from preschool, announced, placing the shiny helium filled balloons beside the others. We were still waiting on my dad, Nasr, Yasmine and Dunia to visit, but so far Mariam's parents were the only ones here. I wished Tracey could be here too, but she was in New York for her job as a journalist. When Imran was born, everyone had come, including my grandparents, on the first day, intent on seeing our first child. Now it seemed that the second child wasn't that big of a fuss, but to me and Mariam, she was just as important.

"Has she got a name yet?" Nasr and his wife entered the room, with little Dunia in tow, and I turned to my wife, who blinked sleepily at them.

"We can't decide between Jameela and Malak," Mariam replied.

"Well, she definitely is both of those things," Yasmine said as she peered over at the baby. "A beautiful angel."

"Is she sleeping?" Dunia inquired in a whisper, and I nodded.

"Yeah, she is."

"We still haven't seen her eyes," Mariam's mother clucked as if this was such a pity.

"She's a tired little thing, isn't she?" a nurse came in to check on Mariam's blood pressure and see if she wanted any food, since it was vital the mother eat something to get energy, but Mariam didn't seem to have an appetite.

"I'll come back in an hour or so," the nurse left, and in came the grandfather.

"Dad," I smiled at him, and he slowly walked over, holding some flowers which he placed on the bedside table before gazing down at our child.

"She definitely took after her mother, this one," he said softly, shooting us both a grin.

"But she got Damian's laziness. She still hasn't woken up yet," Mariam chuckled.

"Is she dreaming?" Imran questioned innocently.

"Babies don't dream," Dunia debated.

"Yes, they do! They dream about baby things!" Imran argued, making us all laugh.

"So what's her name?" my dad queried.

"Malak," I answered just as Mariam responded with, "Jameela."

"Looks like we have a problem here," Nasr chuckled.

"Let's vote," Zeinab suggested.

"Good idea, lets vote," Mariam's mother agreed.

"When did this become an election?" Mariam asked.

Suddenly I had an idea. "Why don't we call her both names?"

"What, like Jameela Malak?" Yasmine put in.

"Yeah, or maybe Malak Jameela," I shrugged.

"Jameela Malak Kareem," Mariam pronounced.

"Hm, I think maybe Malak Jameela sounds better," Mariam's father pondered.

"So we can call her MJ for short," Nasr joked.

"I like the way you think, my brother," I pointed a finger at him.

"Men," Zeinab rolled her eyes.

"Malak Jameela it is," Mariam agreed, and just as she said that the baby began to cry.

"Seems like the baby doesn't like her own name," my dad quipped.

"She needs to be fed," Mariam said, and this was everybody's cue to leave, as the sun had already set, and despite our new family member, everyone had their own families to attend to as well.

"We'll be back tomorrow, In Sha Allah," Mariam's mother kissed her daughter on the forehead, and then kissed her granddaughter in the same place.

As Mariam breastfed Malak after getting the okay from the nurse, I took Imran downstairs to get some food for him, since he was hungry, and tired.

"I like the name Malak," he told me as we ate some lasagne from the café, which wasn't too bad.

"Me too."

The thing with names was that they had meaning behind them, and usually people named their kids a name they hoped they'd live up to. To name your kid 'beautiful' was one thing, but to name them 'angel' meant it was a characteristic that you were partially responsible for, and I vowed, wallahi billahi, to preserve our daughter as the angel she was, for she definitely was a blessing from above, a heaven-sent being gifted just for us. And there was nothing more special than that in this world.