It was never a fairytale. It was something softer — something more sacred.
Years passed.
They didn't rush into love. They built it like a garden — seed by seed, watered with sabr, shaded with taqwa, and rooted in the remembrance of Allah.
Mira completed her Doctor of Pharmacy with distinction. Patients requested her by name. She went on to specialize in clinical research, leading a compassionate care initiative for survivors of emotional trauma in healthcare settings. She became known not just for her knowledge — but for how she made people feel. Whole. Seen. Safe.
Hamza — once a boy with panic in his breath — had now grown into a man people turned to for calm. He graduated with honors, wrote his thesis on "The Legal Boundaries of Emotional Abuse in Educational Institutions," and began practicing advocacy law, with a quiet fire for justice. He held weekly emotional health circles for male students — normalizing du'a, journaling, therapy, and vulnerability without shame.
At home, they were two gentle souls — still healing, still flawed, but never forgetting Who they turned to first when life overwhelmed them.
They prayed Tahajjud together when they could. They memorized Qur'an together slowly, verse by verse, sometimes pausing just to reflect.
Once, while Mira was reciting Surah Ad-Duha aloud, Hamza smiled and whispered, "Your voice sounds like peace."
She turned, blushing. "It's not mine. It's Allah's words."
He replied, "Still. You brought them into our home."
Their love was not dramatic. It was present. In every cup of tea. Every check-in. Every sujood side by side. Every time one said, "Make du'a for me today."
And then one spring morning, she told him.
"I think I'm pregnant."
He froze, blinking, speechless — then fell into sajda right there on the prayer mat, weeping into the carpet.
Nine months later, a son was born. They named him Ameen — the echo of every prayer they once whispered alone in the dark.
Hamza would carry him on his shoulder after Fajr, reciting "HasbiyAllahu la ilaha illa Huwa…" while Mira folded blankets nearby, her eyes full of quiet joy.
They raised Ameen not with toys, but with stories. Of hardship, of resilience. Of a mother who once had no one. Of a father who once sat alone in a hospital bed, praying for someone to see him.
They didn't hide their scars from him. They taught him that scars were signs of mercy — that Allah doesn't just heal; He replaces. He gives better.
One night, when Ameen was three, he asked Mira, "Mama, what's love?"
She pulled him close and said, "Love is when someone helps you get closer to Allah — and never lets you forget who you are."
In that moment, Hamza stood quietly in the doorway, watching his world — his home, his amanah — wrapped in the arms of the woman who once cried herself to sleep, and now smiled in sujood.
This wasn't a story about perfection.
It was a story about mercy — blooming, steady, divine.
And every chapter, every turn, had one Author.
Allah.