Knock Knock.

I nervously bit my lip as my father opened the door. I knew my father wasn't fond of the idea of my marriage, so I could only imagine his reaction to Ibrahim. If this meeting didn't go well, then my parents could say goodbye to their café. I felt my palms start to get clammed up. There was sweat on my brow. I used a washcloth to wipe it off. I clutched my bedroom dresser.

Why am I so nervous?

I stared at my reflection. The sparkly baby blue salwaar kameez (Bengali traditional dress) contrasted with my white hijab that was still wrapped around my neck. My silky black hair fell down in curls to my waist. I applied some light makeup. The winged eyeliner made my dark brown eyes pop out. My lips were tinted with a rogue color. In the mirror, I didn't see myself as overly beautiful.

I was average.

I was average in everything. I wasn't chubby or thin. I was right in the middle. My golden tanned skin was so conflicting against Ibrahim's pale skin. I felt like we made an odd couple. I sighed. I knew I shouldn't be bothered by this, but I was. No matter how many times I pushed the thought away, I couldn't stop my doubts.

How will the Bangladeshi community feel about my marriage?

I slapped a hand to my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought. Why should I care? It was my life, not theirs. I knew there would be a negative reaction. I knew people would whisper behind my back. I knew aunties would give me disappointed looks when I wasn't looking. It saddened me, knowing that the people that surrounded me would expect me to marry another Bengali. My culture refused to let me marry a man outside of the community.

My religion, however, said otherwise. Allah told us to marry those righteous Muslims and that it was a crime to refuse a marriage based on cultural ideas. Yes, the man had to be Muslim, but his culture should not matter and vice versa. Ibrahim was Turkish. Deep down, I knew he was a practicing Muslim. The way he carried himself, the way he acted around others, it all tempted me further to believe that Ibrahim was indeed a practicing Muslim. I wondered how Amira dealt with the cultural outlash when she married Damon.

Damon was not only white, but he was a convert. There was a stigma against converts in the desi community. The stigma shouldn't exist because the Prophet Muhammad (peace and be upon him) never said anything against Muslims marrying converted Muslims. In fact, the Prophet encouraged it.

I down looked at my phone. I should give Amira a call, but she was on her honeymoon. Mentally, I laughed at myself. Amira was going to be surprised to find out I was getting married when she came back.

"Tasneem!" I heard my mother call out among the murmured voices.

"Coming!" I shouted back.

I quickly tied my hair into a messy bun. Then, I pinned my white scarf around my head. I did some final touches to my makeup. When I was satisfied, I walked out of my bedroom door and into the living room. I could hear Ibrahim's deep laugh at something my father said. I felt a bundle of nerves in my stomach.

On the couch, Ibrahim and an elderly man sat down. On the opposite couch, my father sat listening intently to whatever the elderly man was saying. Bashir and an elderly woman were chatting with my mother in the dining room. A dark maroon hijab was tightly wrapped around the elderly woman's head. My mother also fastened her hijab snugly around her head. Our house was relatively small. Ibrahim's family looked so out of place.

I felt the elderly man's gaze on me. He stroked a hand through his graying beard. His eyes were identical to Ibrahim's eyes. "You must be Tasneem," he smiled. "I'm Ibrahim's grandfather."

I couldn't find my voice so I only nodded my head.

I noticed Ibrahim's relaxed posture. He trailed his brown orbs to me. His mouth was slightly dropped as he took in my appearance. I felt self-conscious from his heated gaze.

"MashAllah (God had willed it). Look at how beautiful she is, Ibrahim," the elderly lady, who I assumed was his grandmother, beamed at me.

"Indeed she is," he murmured. His eyes hooded as he kept his voice low.

My father cleared his throat. The men brought their attention back to him. Ibrahim's face changed to a more serious expression, his fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully. He was still dressed in a suit, giving off the illusion of maturity. His hair was in his classic swept up look.

"I only have one daughter, Ibrahim," my father stated, solemnly. "She means the world to me. It is not easy to give her hand in marriage to a stranger," he said with an edge to his voice.

Ibrahim winced at the word 'stranger.' Nonetheless, he recollected himself. "I'm no stranger, sir. You're my brother in Islam. We should never be strangers to one another. We fight for the same cause. We believe in the same Creator. We practice the same deen (religion). We are not strangers in Islam."

My father looked impressed by Ibrahim's answer. He held his gaze as Ibrahim stared right back with a new determination in his dark brown eyes. I knew that Ibrahim came for me and he was going to leave here with my consent to his marriage proposal. Ibrahim was determined to make me his.

"Why my daughter? You can have anyone, but why my daughter?" my father asked.

Ibrahim's lips curled into a confident smile. It was genuine, pure, breathtaking. His teeth shined in the living room lights. "Sir, I don't know how you can even ask that question," he moved his gaze to me. "Your daughter is special. She's unique. She knows when to back down. She is modest, yet assertive at the same time. She's a role model to young Muslim girls everywhere. Plus, she can hold her pride down far longer than I can," he chuckled.

My heart was melting from his words.

"Is that all my daughter is to you?"

Ibrahim moved his attention back to my father. "Absolutely not. I need a wife who will push me to become better. I need a wife who will encourage me to become a better Muslim. My wife needs to be practicing. She has to be a real Muslimah, a woman of her word. A woman who knows what Islam offers to females, a woman who understands Islam and Allah's word. I need a wife that is like your daughter," said Ibrahim in a soft tone.

The room was silent as we waited for my father's response. Anticipation was eating at my nerves. My father did not move. Ibrahim leaned back against the couch. He sat with perfect posture. His expression was blank as he stared at my father. The muscles in his arms flexed as he crossed an arm over the other.

Then, my father stood up.

He walked towards Ibrahim and grabbed Ibrahim's right hand in between his palms. My father's shoulders shook as tears fell from his eyes. Ibrahim looked up in shock and confusion. I made a move to go to my father, but my mother held me in place. Her eyes were sad as she watched her husband's vulnerability. Ibrahim's grandfather stood and held onto my father's shoulder.

"Please," begged my father, "please take care of Tasneem. She's my only child. Please cherish her because she is the greatest gift Allah has given me."

Ibrahim stood as well. He embraced my father, who continued to cry on his shoulders. "I promise to love and cherish her till my dying breath In Shaa Allah (if God wills it)," he whispered.

Tears sprung in my eyes as I watched the heartfelt scene in front of me. Allah had truly blessed me with amazing parents. My heart lurched as I watched Ibrahim comfort his future father-in-law. The sweet words he promised moments ago were still fresh in my mind. He promised to love and cherish me, I thought.

Beside me I heard sniffling.

"Bashir, are you crying?" I asked, slightly amused at the young boy.

"It's allergies."