Ten years later...

"Dad, please," begged our two sons, simultaneously.

"No."

Sitting by the fire, I had my sketchbook in my lap, using my ruler to draw out my next client's perfect fantasy home. The charcoal traced fine lines of ink, shading hidden corners and opened fields of creativity.

On the corner of the page, I had the suggestions boxed, but my mind wanted to impress my clients with more than what they wanted, to give them something they never thought of. My design would astonish them and leave them spluttering for the right words.

The only problem was the children who howled in our living room.

Sighing, I glanced at the quiet toddler beside me, giggling to herself as she brushed the hair of her Barbie doll. Her pale cheeks were flushed with a touch of a rosy blossom, doe-like brown eyes wide with astonishment at the toy before her.

Our youngest child and only daughter, Inaya, was the only one not making a fuss. Then again, I thought with a smile, she's only two and preoccupied playing to even see her brothers.

My eyes then followed the boys who were on their knees before their father, who simply sipped his cinnamon tea in the porcelain cups from Turkey. White, glassy embroidery circled the small cup, a sky blue filling the empty gaps as a darker hue was painted into tiny daisies. Ibrahim always had a fine taste for aesthetics, so it made sense that such a cup existed in our household.

And it was a gift from Bashir from his semester study abroad from Turkey's finest universities.

My sons, Nuh and Zayn, clasped their hands together in a desperate plea, but their father was immune to them at this point, finding the newspaper in his lap to be much more interesting.

The oldest, Nuh, was the same age as Amira's son as they were only a couple months apart, both being nine now. Although all our children bared the same jet-black hair, pasty white skin, and dark brown eyes of their father, each had a different personality that may or may not have resembled ours.

"But, Dad, why can't we go?" asked Zayn, shoulders slumped in defeat. "We're always well-behaved. We did all our Qur'an memorization, our Islamic studies, and our school work."

Ibrahim raised a brow. "You're only five, Zayn. You don't have school work."

"I still kept up with Nuh in Islamic studies!"

"He makes a good point, Dad," shrugged Nuh, rising to his feet. His dark, cat-like eyes met his father's stern gaze, perfectly mastering Ibrahim's calculative approach to his goals. "For two kids below the age of ten, we do a lot more than most kids our age. It's okay to reward us for our hard work sometimes."

"No one ever rewards me for running a business," Ibrahim countered, taking another sip.

"Mom does!" exclaimed Zayn, also standing on his feet and pointing at me. "She gives you a kiss every morning when you leave and when you come back."

Ibrahim choked.

Unable to help myself, I laughed to myself, bursting into an overwhelming fit of my own joy, which my children soon joined in. My husband's face was mixture of both horrified and impressed, which was confusing to say the least.

Inaya crawled into my lap after pushing the sketchbook from my lap, tilting her head at me in question.

"Aren't you all adorable?" I grinned, hugging her close.

"Mommy!" she squealed when I peppered her face in kisses.

"Yes, my darling?"

She pushed my face away, shaking her head. Her black hair was pulled into tiny pigtails, bangs falling over her forehead, framing her visage into such a perfect little angel, a child blessed to me by Allah, a daughter who's mere reflection imitated her father's. My sons shared more of my features as opposed to Ibrahim's.

My eyes met Ibrahim's, seeing his gaze soften at the sight of Inaya and I. When I flashed a smile at him, his stoic demeanor fell, crumbling beneath him while the awe and ardor he usually hid highlighted his expression.

Even after so many years, his dark eyes still lured me in like the gaping fish that I was, still erased all the negativity and stress from my mind, still managed to make my heart flutter.

I felt like I was a teenager all over again, gushing over the hot CEO from magazines. Little did I know that I would marry the CEO deemed as the most cold and stoic when it came to his business. Little did I know that these three children would be products of our love, that they would be our untold legacy left behind, our futures.

Gazing at my sons, their puppy dog eyes rendered me speechless. The tortured and pained glaze in their eyes made me want to erase it instantly. I was too weak against their ploys to set Ibrahim and I against each other when it came to stuff they wanted.

I sighed, setting Inaya on the ground to play. "What are you boys even arguing about?"

"We want to see a movie tonight," said Zayn. "All the other kids are going to see it, so why can't we?"

I bit my lip, knowing full well why Ibrahim refused. From our exchanged glance, I could tell how much it killed him to say no to such a normal request, but we weren't a normal Muslim-American family.

Ever since the Tarkan scandal that raked the nation with its twists and turns, Ibrahim and I were known for our love and the ways we protected each other throughout the trial. Many found us to be an inspiration, but we paid them no attention. Instead, Ibrahim and I focused on building and raising a family of our own as well as caring for the orphans.

In some way, we were parents to those children as well or at least their guardians. They turned to us when they felt the heavy weight of their lives or when life tasted bland and bitter. Those children relied on us for support, for the sweetness that family brought with every smile, with every laughter, with every exchange.

We were their family too.

After such a high profile investigation and a publicized trial, America had her eyes on us, kept her eagles stationed at our occupations. Even if Ibrahim and I learned to live with their haunting eyes, our children did not. We sheltered their lives away from such madness. We kept their identities secret.

The consequence of our actions was that we couldn't always go out whenever we wanted unless for emergencies.

This time, Nuh spoke up. "Mom, I know we can't always do what we want, but just this once. We won't ask again, I promise," he pleaded, lips pulled in a pout.

"It has been a while since we've gone out as a family, Ibrahim," I agreed, turning to him with a hopeful smile. "One night couldn't hurt."

He frowned deeply, stress lines visible on his forehead and eyebrows furrowed. "I can't believe you're condoning this behavior."

"I'm just saying," I shrugged. "We shouldn't let the public keep us imprisoned in our home."

"They're not," he scoffed, placing the small teacup down. "I'm only being cautious for the well-being of our children."

"Ibrahim, they feel suffocated."

"At least they're safe," he retorted.

Shaking my head, I sent him a blank look. I understood the protectiveness that came from my husband more than anything in the world. He had too many instances in his life when the people he loved were threatened by the consequences and barriers of his position. His family would always face public scrutiny for freedom only because of the Tarkan title.

Yet at the same time, I was always an advocate for my children to have a normal childhood, one that wasn't barred by the rigid structure of American society, one that wasn't compromised by the devil's whispers. They deserved a childhood that prepared them for the world beyond our home's gates, beyond my arms.

Ibrahim stroked the facial hair that covered his jaw and chin, contemplating my words. Ambivalence ran deep through his veins, fueling his fatherly nature to protect, yet he knew in his heart how detrimental his actions may be.

Standing up, I picked up our little daughter, carrying her from her toys and into the arms of her father. At first, Inaya's eyes watered from being separated from her doll, but once Ibrahim cradled her to his chest, she peacefully rested her head on his shoulder, a wide smile on her lips.

Ibrahim kissed the top of her head, eyes softening even more. The way he looked at her was as if she were an angel sent to brighten his days with a small, childish giggle or a goofy smile. Inaya pulled at his beard, laughing to herself when Ibrahim feigned hurt.

Sitting beside them, I patted the empty space between Ibrahim and I, a gesture for our sons to sit with us. They eagerly climbed onto the couch, brown eyes wide with curiosity and hope. It was remarkable how similar Nuh and Zayn looked with their wavy, black hair, a stark contrast to their snowy skin.

I nodded my head at Nuh's silent plea.

Grinning widely, he turned to his father. "Look, Dad, I know you're scared about what might happen to us, but you always say that sometimes risks are necessary to grow. Just this once, we're asking you to take the risk with us," he tried with an optimistic lift to his boyish voice.

Ibrahim pursued his lips, looking at me for assistance. He knew my answer, and he knew the kids' answers. All that was left was his. Of course my husband is as stubborn as his own kids. Why wouldn't he be?

"Do you feel the same, Zayn?" he asked gently.

Zayn quickly nodded, unable to wipe the glee from his lips or erase the elation from his eyes. We all knew Ibrahim had no choice but to agree at this point.

With a heavy sigh, Ibrahim gazed at us in a state of defeat. "Fine," he grumbled under his breath. "I need to let you kids go at some point, don't I?"

"It's just a movie, Dad," stated Nuh as a matter of fact. "It's not like we're going off to college or anything."

Ibrahim's head fell back, eyes shut like he was in pain. "Don't remind me," he groaned.

"Will you relax?" I laughed, standing back on my feet. "If we're going to the movies, you boys need to take a bath first."

"But Mom," they protested.

"Nope," I said, "not today. You kids are going to take that bath no matter what."

Grudgingly, my sons forced themselves down the hall and up the staircase, whispering to one another with the occasional pushing and shoving that rowdy siblings always did. It was humorous to think that there was once a time when Ibrahim didn't want kids out of the same fear he had now about losing them, yet Allah blessed us with three little ones who became the light of our lives the second they were born.

It made the painful hours of labor worth it just to hold my little babies in my arms.

Collapsing back on the couch, I smiled at the sight before me. Inaya was pulling at her father's mass of black hair, tugging at every strand she could grasp. Ibrahim made no movement to push her off or show his discomfort. His deep chuckle echoed across the room, filling our daughter with her own giddiness from playing with her father.

My heart swelled.

"Inaya, darling, are you going to spend all your time with your father instead of me?" I teased her, tickling her sides.

"Yes!" she giggled.

I pouted. "But Mommy wants to play too."

She stuck her tongue out at me.

Ibrahim and I erupted into laughter together, a wave of euphoria pulsing through our bloodstream, smiles wide enough to hurt, eyes creasing to a sound that fill any darkness with an everlasting glimmer of the untold future. Our young ones caused that. Our love brought us a family. Our devotion to Allah united us.

Inaya clung to her father's neck.

I reached my arm out. "We need to get you ready to go to the movies," I smiled. "So, let's go."

She shook her head.

Ibrahim chuckled deeply, trying to pry her tiny arms away, but our daughter held on stronger. Sighing, he looked at me helplessly, quirking a defeated smile, one that said he tried with half effort and wouldn't try again.

"Okay, then help her get ready."

"Do we have to go?" he groaned.

"Yes," I said. "They just want to watch the new Disney live action."

"But-"

"Ibrahim."

Instead of arguing further, he understood my sharp tone. He held my gaze for a moment, an effort to challenge my decision, but the resolve diminished as quickly as it came. Standing, he carried Inaya close to his chest, beginning to walk away to do his task of getting her ready.

Because Ibrahim and I worked for most of the day, our kids only saw us in the afternoons or early in the morning. They were more accustomed to seeing me because my job did not require me to show up at the head office every day. If I had a project, I could stay home and design.

Ibrahim's schedule was not like that, so our kids grabbed every opportunity to gather his attention, sometimes the bickering would follow us to our bedrooms, or it was the pleading for something they wanted like today.

Ibrahim paused in front of me.

"What?" I asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Without a word, he leaned down, lips gently pressing against my forehead. They were warm against my skin, a velvet touch to a silk complexion, swaying with a softness. When he pulled back, I was left stunned, a blushing shell of my former self.

"What was that for?"

He only smiled, walking away without a another word.

That man never changes.

* * * *

"Assalamualaikum!" yelled a familiar voice at the front door.

The children immediately cheered, running towards the front door to greet our visitor. Inaya wobbled as she tried to keep pace with her brothers, but of course that was no possible for her.

Pulling the scarf over my head, I quickly wrapped it before I held one of her small hands in mine, slowly walking her to the door to greet her favorite and only uncle. Inaya could walk perfectly on her own, but whenever my sons would run and play together, she desperately wanted to be a part of their games. Their swiftness was no match for her beginner level of walking.

"Mommy, look," she managed to say, pointing at the door.

I nodded, smiling. "Do you know who that is?"

"Uncle!" she squealed.

Across from us, Nuh and Zayn clung to Bashir's legs, laughing as their uncle pretended to stomp around to shake them off, exaggerating his movements to make them jump with their joy.

After so many years, Bashir was no longer that little chatterbox with no filter. Now, he was the embodiment of all the hard work his family put in raising him, a man his parents would surely be proud of. His midnight hair was slicked back in a similar style as Ibrahim's, jaw covered in small hairs that erased every little bit of adolescence from him.

Bashir and Ibrahim were relatively the same height, except Bashir was an inch or two shorter. He didn't spend his time in the gym often unless Ibrahim dragged him for some brother bonding time, so he was still the fiesty, food-loving, cocky kid that he always was except now he went through puberty.

It was still so weird to hear him speak without the voice cracks.

Inaya frowned when Bashir didn't give her attention. "Uncle!" she shouted louder.

This time, Bashir heard. "Oh my God, it's the princess," he said, pulling the boys away and falling to his knees. "Will you bestow a hug upon this lowly peasant?"

Releasing my hand, she ran into his awaiting arms.

Ibrahim rolled his eyes. "You're terribly dramatic for a college graduate."

"You're just mad that your kid loves me more than you," he slyly joked, grinning widely at his brother.

My husband scowled. "That's because you never discipline them."

Bashir shrugged, carrying Inaya. "I don't need to. I'm the fun-loving uncle that every kid needs."

"Yeah!" yelled the boys in unison.

I rolled my eyes. "You kids just like defying your father."

"We don't do it that often, Mom," said Nuh, crossing his arms. His visage shifted to contemplation. "But today we did."

"I agreed to let us all go."

"After we all convinced you to," retorted Zayn this time, giving his father a long sideways glance.

Ibrahim's frown deepened, erupting a small laugh from me. I hugged his arm, resting my head on his shoulder blade as I stared lovingly up at him. Being crushed by his kids' silly comments, he gave me a blank stare, making me laugh even more at his pout.

"Oh, they're only joking," I teased. Turning to my sons, I raised a brow. "Weren't you, boys?"

"We love you, Dad," said Nuh with an innocent smile. "Especially since you took us to the movies."

Bashir's jaw dropped. "Wait, you weren't joking about that?"

"No," said Ibrahim, monotone as per usual.

"But you hate going to the movies."

"Unfortunately, I had no choice," he said.

I hit his arm playfully. "Yeah, you did. You just chose to listen to the voice of family and reason."

In a burst of sudden confidence, his arm wrapped around my waist, forcing me to be plush against the side of his body. I felt his hot breath hovering close to my hijab, lips brushing against the fabric. My body ignited at his touch, at the firm grip at my hip, at his slow exhales, and the huskiness of his deep voice, smooth and concise.

"Perhaps you should reward me for it," he whispered lowly.

Biting my lip, I tried to hide my smile. "I wouldn't be opposed to it," I said.

Bashir's gagging broke our little daydream. "I am so disgusted right now. This is exactly why Thomas stays in the office," he cringed.

"No, he stays in the office because Nuh gives him a headache with riddles," stated Zayn. He nudged his older brother with his elbow. "Tell him what happened last time."

A ghost of a smile touched Nuh's lips, almost a mirror copy to his father's. "I told him a superhero riddle that had a social issue hidden in it and he was struggling not to curse at us while Dad was present," rambled Nuh.

Bashir's eyes widened. "Whoa. My nephew is a beast," he boasted, raising a hand. "High five me."

Nuh excitedly did so.

"Well, since you can take care of the kids, Tasneem and I are going upstairs."

"For what?" asked Bashir.

"Reasons."

"Too vague."

"Clearly, I didn't care enough, now did I?" countered Ibrahim.

"Ouch," said Bashir, feigning hurt. "Well, if you're going to just talk, I don't mind."

Without another word, Ibrahim pulled me up the long staircase that once intimidated me, dragging me across the red carpet as if I was a queen ready to be served for her wishes. A hidden smile graced his lips, dark eyes twinkling with mischief, so vibrant that stars were nothing in comparison.

I didn't protest. This was the man I decided to spend my entire life with, the man I hoped to see in Jannah (Paradise) one day, the man who held my heart in his hands. Through all the obstacles of our life, we managed to hold our ground, hold our deen (religion) to our hearts. We wore our belief like a crown, profound and unique, dictated our lives to implement Allah in every part of our family.