Aziz-E-Qalb

Epilogue

Musa’s POV

If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be here—lying on the floor of my daughter’s nursery, covered in pink stuffed animals and tiny socks—I would have laughed in their face.

Yet here I was.

Defeated.

Completely and utterly defeated by a two-year-old.

"Inaya, Baba ko baksh do." I groaned, pushing a plush rabbit off my face.

A delighted giggle rang through the room. I turned my head just in time to see my daughter, my entire world, climbing onto my chest with the confidence of a queen.

Her curly dark hair was tied up in tiny pigtails, her chubby cheeks flushed from laughter. Her mother’s eyes—big and expressive—twinkled with mischief.

"Baksh nahi!" She declared proudly, pressing her little hands against my cheeks and squishing them. "Baba ko punish!"

Ain’s laughter echoed from the doorway.

I turned my head and found my wife leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, amusement dancing in her gaze.

She was beautiful—more beautiful than ever. Motherhood had made her glow in a way I never imagined possible.

"Musa, it seems like our daughter has finally avenged me." She smirked. "For all the times you teased me."

"Finally? She avenges you every single day!" I shot back, making Inaya giggle as she clapped her tiny hands.

"My little princess, Baba loves you, but if you keep siding with your Ammi, who will be on my team, hmm?" I asked, gently poking her tummy.

She scrunched her nose, pretending to think. Then, with a bright grin, she wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Ammi AND Baba! Inaya loves both!"

And just like that—my heart melted.

I hugged her tightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Allah ka shukar hai tum meri beti ho," I murmured.

Ain walked toward us, kneeling beside me. She reached out, running her fingers through my hair. "I still remember the day we almost lost her," she whispered.

I intertwined my fingers with hers, bringing them to my lips. "She’s our miracle, Ain."

Our little Inaya.

Our love, our blessing, our proof that Allah listens to even the most desperate of prayers.

And as Inaya babbled about something only she understood, Ain leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder.

This—this was my home.

My wife.

My daughter.

My everything.