The Mosque Caretaker's Daughter

I've lived above this mosque my whole life.

Twenty-four years of waking to the fajr adhan, of memorizing the patterns in the prayer hall carpet, of knowing every crack in these ancient walls. My father is the caretaker—has been since before I was born, since he came to London with nothing but faith and determination.

Now he's getting old.

And he's hired help.

"This is Idris," my father says. "He'll be assisting me. Show him where everything is."

Idris is twenty-seven. Tall. Serious eyes and a beard that's just past stubble. He looks at me like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve.

"Assalamu alaikum," he says.

"Wa alaikum assalam."

And that's how it starts.

For the first month, we're careful.

Professional. I show him the supply closets and the wudu stations and the hidden leak in the women's section that's been there since I was a child. He takes notes. He works hard. He treats me like the caretaker's daughter—nothing more.

But I catch him looking.

During prayer, when he thinks I'm focused on my salah, his eyes drift to where I stand behind the partition. During meals, when my father invites him to eat with us, his gaze lingers a moment too long.

And at night—

At night, I hear him in the prayer hall. Long after everyone's gone. I hear him making dua, his voice low and fervent, asking for strength against something he won't name.

I know what he's asking strength against.

I'm asking for the same thing.

It happens on a Thursday.

Ramadan, the twenty-seventh night. The mosque is empty—everyone's at the big gathering in East London Mosque, the one my father was invited to attend. I stayed to watch the building.

Idris stayed too.

"You should go," I told him. "Laylatul Qadr—you shouldn't miss it."

"The night of power is everywhere." He looked at me. "Even here."

We prayed taraweeh together—him in the men's section, me behind the partition, both of us pretending we weren't acutely aware of each other's presence.

After, I went to make tea.

He followed.

"Salma."

I turn from the kettle. He's standing in the doorway of the small kitchen, filling the space with his presence.

"You should go back to your room."

"I know."

"My father—"

"Is in East London." He steps closer. "He won't be back until fajr."

"Idris—"

"I've tried." His voice breaks on the word. "Every night, I make dua. I ask Allah to remove these feelings. I ask for the strength to see you as my employer's daughter and nothing more."

"And?"

"And every night, I fail." He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell him—clean, like the prayer hall soap. "Do you know what that's like? To pray for something and have it denied?"

"Yes." I look up at him. "I know exactly what that's like."

The kettle whistles.

Neither of us moves.

He kisses me.

Soft at first—questioning, asking permission. I give it. Pull him closer, part my lips, let him in.

"Salma—"

"Don't talk." I grab his shirt. "Don't think. Just—"

I can't finish the sentence. His mouth finds mine again, and thought becomes impossible.

We stumble through the kitchen, into the hallway, toward my room above the mosque. Past the pictures of Mecca. Past the calligraphy my father hung when I was born. Past everything that should remind us why this is wrong.

None of it matters.

Nothing matters except his hands on my body and his breath in my ear and the way he says my name like it's a prayer.

My room is small.

A single bed, a desk, a window that overlooks the prayer hall. I've brought boys here before—secret, shameful encounters that left me feeling empty. This is different.

This feels holy.

"We shouldn't—" he says, even as his hands work my hijab loose.

"I know."

"In Ramadan—during the sacred nights—"

"I know." I pull his shirt over his head. "Tell me to stop and I'll stop."

He doesn't tell me to stop.

He lifts me onto the bed, and my abaya pools around us like water, and then there's nothing between us but skin.

He worships me.

There's no other word for it. His mouth traces every inch of my body—my neck, my shoulders, the curve of my breasts. He whispers things I can't hear, prayers maybe, or promises, or both.

"Idris—"

"Let me—" He kisses down my stomach. "Let me do this right. Let me show you—"

"Show me what?"

"What it means to be wanted."

His tongue finds my center, and I stop asking questions.

He learns me quickly.

Finds the spots that make me gasp, the pressure that makes me shake, the rhythm that builds and builds until I'm gripping the sheets and biting my lip to keep from screaming.

"Don't hold back—" he says against my skin. "Let me hear you—"

"The neighbors—"

"Let them hear." He looks up at me, eyes dark with want. "Let them know you're being loved properly."

I come with a cry that echoes off the walls.

He doesn't stop—he keeps going, pushing me through the first wave into a second, a third, until I'm crying and shaking and begging him to fill me.

"Please—I need—"

He rises over me. Positions himself. Hesitates.

"If we do this—"

"I know."

"There's no going back."

"I don't want to go back." I wrap my legs around him. "I want to go forward. With you."

He pushes inside.

We move together like we've done this a thousand times.

His body fits mine perfectly—filling me, completing me, making me feel things I thought were impossible. The bed creaks with our rhythm, and somewhere below, the prayer hall sits empty and waiting.

"Salma—" he gasps. "You're—I've never—"

"Neither have I." I pull him closer, deeper. "Not like this."

He speeds up. The pleasure builds. I feel myself climbing toward something bigger than before, something that might shatter me.

"I'm going to—"

"With me—" He reaches between us, finds my clit. "Come with me—"

I do.

We shatter together, his release filling me as mine tears through me, both of us clinging to each other like we're the only real things in the world.

After, we lie in the dark.

The adhan for fajr will come soon. My father will return. Reality will crash back in.

"I want to marry you," he says.

"You don't even know me."

"I know you pray with your whole heart. I know you take care of your father without complaint. I know you laugh at the same jokes in khutbahs that make me smile." He turns to face me. "I know I've never felt like this about anyone."

"My father will fire you."

"Then I'll find another job."

"He'll never approve."

"Then we'll convince him." He takes my hand. "I'm not asking for today, Salma. I'm asking for the future. Say you want the same thing."

The adhan begins, floating up from the speakers below.

I squeeze his hand.

"I want the same thing."

It takes a year to convince my father.

A year of chaperoned meetings, of family negotiations, of Idris proving himself worthy. My father is furious at first—his employee, under his own roof, with his own daughter.

But Idris is patient.

He works harder. Prays more visibly. Treats my father with a respect that borders on reverence. Slowly, the fury fades into grudging acceptance.

"He loves her," my mother tells my father. "Isn't that what we wanted for her?"

"I wanted her to choose properly. With family involvement."

"She chose her heart." My mother smiles. "Sometimes that's the most proper choice of all."

We marry in the mosque where we met.

The same prayer hall where I grew up. The same carpet patterns I memorized as a child. My father gives me away with tears in his eyes—not all of them sad.

That night, in our new flat in Mile End, Idris holds me in our own bed for the first time.

"Do you remember Laylatul Qadr?" he asks.

"I remember everything."

"I still pray about that night." He kisses my forehead. "But now I thank Allah instead of asking for strength."

"What do you thank Him for?"

"For answering my prayers wrong." He pulls me closer. "The best thing that ever happened to me was failing to stop wanting you."

I kiss him.

And in the distance, I hear the adhan begin—calling us to prayer, to faith, to a life built on both.