The Islamic School Principal

مديرة المدرسة الإسلامية

The email summons me to the principal's office.

Regarding your son Ahmed's behavior.

I thought I was done being called to the principal's office at thirty-eight.

I'm Kareem.

Single father, two kids. My wife passed three years ago. I'm doing my best.

My best apparently isn't enough.

Principal Farida Saeed is not what I expected.

Late forties, full-figured, with a presence that fills her office. She's strict—I've heard the stories—but also warm.

"Mr. Hassan. Thank you for coming."

"Is Ahmed in serious trouble?"

"Ahmed is grieving. There's a difference."

She explains.

The fights. The withdrawn behavior. The refusal to pray.

"He's rejecting his faith," she says gently. "Which is normal after loss. But we need to address it."

"I don't know how."

"Neither do I. But perhaps we can figure it out together."

She recommends family counseling.

Offers to connect us with the mosque's resources. Asks questions about my home life that should feel intrusive but don't.

"You're doing this alone," she observes.

"I have to."

"You don't. There's community for a reason."

I start coming to the mosque more.

Friday prayers, community dinners. Ahmed slowly starts talking again. And I keep running into Principal Saeed.

"Farida," she corrects one evening. "We're off school grounds."

"Farida. How is this okay? You're my son's principal."

"I'm also a widow who recognizes grief when she sees it."

"You lost someone too?"

"My husband. Five years ago. I know what you're carrying." She touches my arm—brief, appropriate. "It gets lighter. Not gone, but lighter."

"When?"

"When you let others help carry it."

We start having coffee.

Then dinner. Always chaperoned by circumstance—public places, community events. Nothing improper.

But something is building.

"This is complicated," I say one evening.

"Because I'm Ahmed's principal?"

"Because I'm starting to care for you. And I don't know if that's appropriate."

"It's not." She smiles slightly. "But appropriate isn't always possible."

"What do we do?"

"Ahmed graduates in two years. After that, I'm not his principal anymore."

"That's a long time."

"It's also a proper timeline. For getting to know each other. For making sure this is real."

We court for two years.

Slowly, carefully. My kids meet her; she has no children of her own but loves mine. The community whispers—of course they do—but no scandal erupts.

The day after Ahmed's graduation, I propose.

"Was this the plan all along?" she laughs.

"The plan was to survive. You became the reason I wanted to thrive."

"That's very romantic for a parent-teacher conference."

"You started it."

Our wedding night.

Two years of waiting. Two years of proper distance. Now, finally, permission.

"I'm nervous," she admits.

"So am I."

"We're too old to be nervous."

"We're exactly the right age to be nervous."

I undress her slowly.

The authority she wears so well in school melts away. Beneath is a woman who's been alone too long.

"Beautiful."

"I'm not young—"

"You're everything."

We make love like people who've waited.

Slowly, then urgently. All the restraint dissolving in permission.

"Ya Rabb—Kareem—"

"I've wanted this since that first meeting."

"Since I called you to the principal's office?"

"Since you looked at me like I was worth saving."

Five years later

Ahmed is in college now.

He calls Farida "Mom"—his choice, not mine. She's loved him like her own.

"Happy?" I ask.

"Happier than I thought possible."

"Still glad you called me to that meeting?"

"Best meeting of my career."

She pulls me close.

The same woman who commanded my respect in her office. Now she commands something else entirely.

"Report cards are coming out," she murmurs.

"Grades?"

"Not for the kids."

"What then?"

"For you. Married performance. You're doing very well."

Alhamdulillah.

For principals who see beyond behavior.

For patience that becomes love.

For meetings that change everything.

The End.