Chapter One: The Beginning
Life was hard for me, for lots of reasons, I knew it wouldn't be all rosy but I never thought it'd get to these point of dilemma where I have to fight for something insignificant and small but still worth it, where I have to fight for an identity and conform to a pattern that is not acceptable to me but to the public and to my parents.
I had always known i was different from the other girls in quaint town of Midwestern Willerbrook where tradition and modernity danced an intricate waltz,. From a young age, i felt drawn to other girls, but every time I tried to bring it up to my parents or the clergy at my church, I was shut down and told that my feelings were wrong and same sex attraction was a sin, so I suppressed my feelings and prayed them away but it only made me more miserable.
I was sad because my choice of happiness wasn't acceptable to my family, they wanted me to be who they want me to be, no who I want to be, so they turn down my emotions and gave a deaf ears to my questions. But in all these, there was someone in who I was pleased with, someone who understood my emotions, someone who gave me peace and solace, nobody but, my best friend Bibah. we had been inseparable since we were kids and grew even closer as we approached teenage age. Bibah with her cascading chestnut hair and mischievous hazel eyes, was the epitome of charisma and beauty, her laughter could light up even the darkest corners of their clandestine world.
She radiated a fiery energy and sparkling eyes that drew people towards her effortlessly. On the other hand, I was possessed with an enchanting presence. My raven black hair framed softly on my porcelain face, and my emerald-green eyes held an air of mystery and depth.
Our first encounter was like the striking of a chord, an electric resonance that set our hearts aflutter during a summer festival feast, where the town united in a joyous celebration and Bibah's family just moved to Mid-western Willerbrook and were new to the people in the town amidst the vibrant atmosphere, Bibah's laughter that sounds like a maniacal guffaw echoed through the air, and i couldn't help but feel a magnetic pull towards the demure girl in the floral dress. The moment our eyes met through stolen glances an unspoken connection was forged, and a seed of love was planted.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as the bond between us grew stronger we realized we shared interests, dreams, and passions, finding solace in each other's arms and it brought us closer. But,as our love blossomed, so where the obstacles we faced.
Bibah is everything I know, everything I want, the best childhood friend anyone would wish for, we held hands, cuddled and shared our secrets together we've always been there for each other through thick and thin. We were the best we could be for each other, the bond so strong, the energy enthusiastic, it was like we were meant to be forever. As we grew older things we're changing, the bond got stronger, even though we were from different backgrounds.
I was the sixteen 16 year old shy and introverted girl who came from a strict clergy family who were prominent religious figures in Mid-Western Willerbrook, bound by the chains of conservatism and guided by the dogma of their faith, which stood as unyielding sentinels against what I was feeling within, their conservative beliefs cast a long shadow over my life as their daughter, they clung to traditional values and harbored deep-rooted prejudices against the LGBT community. For them, society's expectations and their reputation were far more significant than my happiness. The clergy's teachings echoed in their ears, a somber refrain that threatened to drown out the symphony of their hearts.
Meanwhile in the spark contrast Bibah was the 17 year old outgoing and , free-spirited girl with a more relaxed upbringing, her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Miller, were free spirited individuals who believed in unconditional love and acceptance. They had dedicated their lives to enhancing happy relationships and championing the rights of the marginalized. Bibah had grown up in an environment that encouraged embracing one's true self and celebrating diversity. Despite our differences we were always drawn to each other.
I have always felt a special connection to Bibah since day one it was stress less and beautiful, I began to wonder why the bond was so unbreakable and what was the force keeping us together because we valued our friendship more than anything in the world.
In the same light, I started to feel something stronger towards Bibah and, i didn't know how to place it or wrap it around my head, I tried to brush it off thinking it was just a phase or probably I was overthinking, I thought to myself so I didn't want to act on it, I was so scared of the reaction that might come afterwards and I couldn't risk our friendship for anything in the World but the more I tried to ignore it the stronger it became.
I was vulnerable whenever Bibah was involved, I admired her beauty, intelligence, charisma and sense of humor. We had a soft spot for each other that was unusual, I loved the way everything feels with Bibah, every moment felt like I was becoming infatuated and the next minute I'm beginning to question if my feeling were right? As time goes on I realized that what I was feeling was highly unusual, I couldn't really fathom because my mind was conflicting what it was it was I was feeling or possibly just a something that would fade away, but then I was just a clergy girl who loves girls, little did I realize that I was in love with Bibah.
As we approached senior year in high school, I knew that it was time to confront my feelings because I couldn't hold it any longer and life's beginning to get at us.
One Lousy Saturday, we we're bored and decided to take a stroll to the willow tree by the riverbank, my eyes couldn't stop popping, I felt a flutter in my chest, I was nervous, I was tensed, I began breathing and thinking if I should say anything or I should just shut up. We got to the beach, it was dark and beautiful with the flamboyant rays of stars reflecting on the waters, and I said within "Suga breathe, just breathe".
"There's was no appropriate time for these" I thought to myself and I better let it out so I could find inner peace. Finally I decided to let it out in deep fear I buckled up and told Bibah how I've been feeling, who didn't seem surprised at all. I was perplexed for a while if it's happening for real but it didn't just stop there.
Bibah told me that she had been waiting for me to realize these and open up or bring up something about in that regard for a while and that she had feelings for me too and that was the most amazing and overwhelming reply I've heard in my life, and it was the best feeling ever, and beneath the ancient Willerbrook oak tree, we wove a tapestry of affection, with our souls intermingling in a dance of unspoken promises. the night ended with Bibah's lips on mine.
At first we were hesitant to act on our feelings because we feared what our parents might say, mine especially and we lived in a conservative town where same-sex relationship was not accepted. However, what we shared was too strong to ignore.
As the days passed, our love became a secret garden, tended to in stolen moments and hushed conversations. We reveled in the beauty of our shared world, a sanctuary where our souls could dance freely, unburdened by the weight of society's expectations though not yet ready to come out to anyone else yet because of my conservative background but Bibah, a beacon of strength and resilience, became the guardian of our love. With each passing day, she painted our story in vivid hues, a masterpiece of passion and devotion, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world.
Yet, as the days turned into nights and the seasons danced by, the looming specter of my conservative upbringing cast its shadow. The town's whispers grew louder, and the weight of tradition bore down on her heart. my parents, devout and unwavering, were pillars of the community, my parents quickly caught on to our closeness and how our chemistry was becoming too much and became it increasingly suspicious. They started monitoring my movements , whereabouts, phone and internet use and browser histories, and even questioned my friends in an attempt to uncover if I was doing anything wrong or Illegal and questions regards my relationship with Bibah. I just knew they would never understand the kind of love that had bloomed between myself and Bibah and how happy I was the moment.
One Thursday Morning, I wanted a bath so I stepped in the bathroom, leaving my phone on the bed comfortably and recklessly forgetting to lock it, my Momma came in and her curiosity was itchy she took my phone and went straight to my WhatsApp messages and luckily she found explicit conversations that's been shared between me and Bibah, stepping out of the bathroom, saw my Dad and Mum standing right in front of me popping the conversations on my face "Suga what is this? Start talkin' my Dad said with a harsh tone, I couldn't say anything at that moment my brain left my body, I felt numb, I knew that the time had come to face the tempest, to challenge the walls that held me captive.
I snapped out of time and just freezed a storm brewed on my horizon, all I said was I'm sorry, with they're eyes in disappointment they thought I needed spiritual purification and immediately took action.
They contacted the clergy at their church, who then called for an intervention with I and my family with the condition that I'll under go a spiritual rehabilitation and prayer ritual for three months in the church without stepping out without my consent.
My heart ached with the knowledge that we could never be together openly, that our love was wrong and just a fragile secret, tucked away in the corners of our hearts.
Chapter 2
"Suga get dressed and meet us in the car, my Dad said in a harsh tone, i had no idea of what was going on I just did as he said, We parked and Lo, we were at the church, in my mind I thought I was brought for deliverance prayers or so unknowingly was brought for church rehabilitation.
I was infuriated, wanted to lose my cool but then I had no option, the fact my parents felt they're losing their only child as regards my sexuality broke me, I couldn't do or say anything but conform to their terms.
I was Sad I couldn't say anything, they seized my phone, iPads and headphones that I wouldn't need them for my church arrest ritual, my parents said they'll be providing everything I'll be needing and that was how they left me there.
I wanted to scream but I couldn't, I felt like dying I've never stayed that long away from Bibah and she doesn't know about these, would she be disappointed in my? How would she'll react to these news?. Should I escape ? I thought.
"Here is your garments ", a "voice said from behind" these is what we put on here in the name of the Lord, take off your garments for it is unclean, wear these and come to the hall for spiritual counseling, I am Sister Grace", she said and left.
I looked at her she should be in her mid-twenties she was young, with blue eyes and a clear skin, "Must be misguided" I thought. "You all are pathetic" I said in a low tone as I walked clumsily in the Brown church approved garment that looks like a low budget maternity gown. Getting to the Hall I saw 11 sisters, Six looked young, Three aged, Two middle aged.
"Come sit", Sister Grace said in a welcoming tone, I walked towards them and stood towards the direction her hand was pointing to.
Sisters, these is Sister Suga, she has sinned against the Lord and against her body, she is possessed with demons of same-sex attraction, therefore seeks forgiveness from the Lord, who is faithful and just to forgive her indiscretions and also perform the three months cleansing process to cast out the spirit of same sex attraction.
They all stared at me with a stern look and chorused "you're welcome, may the Lord forgive you."
My eyes wide open, I felt suffocated by the weight of their judgements"what in heavens name is going on here" I said within, did she really say what she said out loud or I'm on trance? "These doesn't feel right, at all" I said to myself.
She continued, " Today marks your first Spritual purification process, and you start with Flagellation,
Fla what? I asked, she said it's a process of inflicting pain on the demon, How? I asked, by whipping she replied, "That's impossible" I said I wanted to run, before I knew it, I felt a grip on my arm, the sisters dragged me they stripped my garment held me so tight that I couldn't move as Sister Grace sprinkled Holy water on my body afterwards gave me 50 strokes of whips. I cried my eyes out "BIBAH where are you" I thought ? I felt a dark cloud hovering over me.
Chapter 3
"Bibah we need to talk, come down to the sitting room" Bibah's Dad said in a calm tone, Bibah was clueless of what happened but she's been worried about me because she couldn't reach me, walked out of her room and met her Mum, Dad, and Two elder brothers all sitted waiting for her in the sitting room, she was curious as to what the unusual gathering was for.
"Bibah Darling" Bibah's mum said with a blunt smile in a repressed tone, "we got a call from Suga's parent and they sent us some screenshots of explicit conversations you've had with Suga, which was inappropriate, and offensive to them, anyways they said they don't want you anywhere close Suga anymore, baby, and I think we should listen to them, I'm so sorry." Bibah's mum said.
Bibah's Dad continued, " Baby we want you to understand that we are not mad at you, we always knew you were different, if you're comfortable with who you are then it's fine, we can't decide that path for you for it is not in our place to do that, we just need you to be careful and don't want you involved with Suga, because her parents strictly warned against that and we wouldn't want to risk having any problems with them.
Unbothered Bibah said camly "Where is Suga? is she fine? Where's she? What did they do to her?. "They didn't tell us anything about her not her whereabouts honey we think you should just let it go and stay away from her.
"I'm sorry I can't" Bibah said aggressively and went upstairs leaving, "What has happened to Suga, how can I see her without walk past her parents, these cannot be happening now, not these time, not when everything's just beginning to spark up between us." Bibah said to herself
Chapter 4
I felt terrified and alone as I sat with my hands across my legs on the local bunk allocated to me in the , I was trembling in Pain and agony, the room felt like it was closing in on me and I was surrounded by people seeking to erase a part of my being. I felt trapped, hopeless, wondering if there's any escape from the confinement of my own Identity. I was physically and emotionally drained.
As the world goes round and round, Depression wraps my heart and pounds. My mind was like a dark, dismal space. A melancholic state of disgrace.
It's like a raincloud follows me, And drowns me with its misery. Each day was a struggle.
Like a weight on my shoulders, I felt, Depression grips me with its steel. My thoughts became a turbulent storm, My emotions, an unstable form.
There was nothing I could do, I was bitter and hurt I started doubting if my parents where actually my biological parents, because it didn't make sense to me why they'll subject their only child support to such Barbaric activity, I was filled with rage but then I had to deal with it. I embodied my pain and decided I'll dance to every tune they play.
I was in my thoughts and I felt a tap on my shoulder , it was Sister Grace' "Suga dear, we love you and the Lord loves, you might be hurt but you'll be stronger, the pains takes out the demons in you and then you start to reflect and evaluate your life for the better," "You call these Love, you don't love me, you're just guilty of what you've done to me and you're trying to justify your actions.
Sister grace continued "It's absolutely not the way you think it is dear, if you don't inflict pain on your problems they won't go away, you need to learn that, pain opens a new dimension within us which produces perseverance and character which leads to hope that allows God to pour in our hearts through the Holy Spirit, so do not be saddened my child for the Lord has taken away your transgressions and you're now reborn in his light and awe, so rejoice my dear, for your season of change has come"
I looked at her with so much rage and despair in my eyes and I looked the other way cos' I couldn't stare at her any longer, there was so much fury in my eyes that I couldn't even tolerate her sight anymore,it felt so annoying, I could throw up, if I stared any longer. "I'd like to be left alone, please "I uttered and she left silently without saying a word, I felt she was guilt trippCrytyed by what she and the sisters did to me in the name of flagellation, because guilt was written all over her face, May God forgive y'all I said to myself.
Chapter 5
"You're going home today" a voice said from behind, looking up it was the matron she told me my purification process was over and told me my parents were coming to pick me up. She knelt beside me and whispered " love is love my darling, do not turn off your light" and I was amazed and perplexed at what she said but I couldn't harness it cos I was happy I was going home, not to see my parents because I was still mad at them, I was just happy that I was free at last, free from the sisters, free to see Bibah once again and tell her everything that has happened and continue our love story where it stopped "for a moment I thought to myself, what might possibly happen to Bibah, I hope she's fine though" I thought to my self. Like a glimmer of hope, my parents arrived, my mum was happy to see me but my dad still kept a stern look, "Get in the car" he said, I got in the car and we left.
Upon arrival, I met guests in the house and wondered what was going on, unknowingly my Parents had arranged marriage with the preachers Son and his family behind my back and I was clueless about it, I was perplexed by the whole situation. My mum couldn't even look me in the eyes, she just immediately told me to go get dressed, "your husband and his people are waiting" I was shocked, sad, miserable and for once I wished I would've stayed with these sisters or possibly run away if I had any idea, I'll be returning to this kind of menace, I never imagined these could ever happen.
My parents were no slouch when it came to doing things their way, most especially when it had to do with religious matters. I thought at that moment what I could possibly do to get away from the situation, then I realized there was nothing I could do to stop it, I was infuriated and upset but I couldn't refuse, because my Parents had made their minds up and it didn't seem like they got any intention in changing their minds. My parents clung to outdated beliefs, forcing me into a loveless marriage, I was shattered, bitter and depressed.
The invitations, hurriedly printed, invited guests from the church and other communities to attend the weeding of Suga Peters and William brown. So I and Williams were married a week after my rehabilitation in Church
Williams Brown, Tall, masculine son of the preacher, attentive, intelligent, polite but boring. A husband chosen for me by my Parents without my approval and I dared not disobey the "Almighty father." So I got married to Williams, in my heart I felt it was a mistake that was doomed to failure. We honeymooned in the Maldives, it was a big joke, it was boring because William was so inexperienced and clumsy, he's doesn't know his way around a woman nor does he knows how to make love to a woman, he just stares at me all the time and makes a funny grin that disgusts me, he stares like he's staring at a portrait. I don't really blame him though because he literally spent all his life in the church, surrounded by the clergy's. "Bibah is far more of an option than this William, she's sweet" I said to myself.
My parents thought they'd rather lose me to a failed marriage than lose me to Bibah, I was actually still a virgin in the technical sense, never having done more than a lot of heavy petting and it wasn't with a man, it was with Bibah, I don't even know how it feels like. Williams in disappointment was totally inexperienced in bed, and unwilling to indulge in more than kissing at night and I was cool with, in as much as I loved how it felt it didn't spark me up cos I was still thinking of Bibah on that moment.
I was stuck in a lifeless loveless marriage to a man that I couldn't stand and everything wasn't making sense to me. We lived in an apartment not five minutes away from the Browns palatial home. William was jobless, he spends the entire day playing golf with his father and his friend and hung around the church like a security guard getting on everyone's nerves and way. My life was filled with sadness and bitterness I felt trapped in a life my parents had forced upon me. I hated Williams and my parents for putting me in that situation, but staying married pleased my parents and they didn't bother whether I was happy or not, I was shocked at how Williams was so comfortable with this situation knowing I don't love him. I was sad always but I still try to manufacture a smile because my mom scolds me to fix my face always when meeting people.
My Dad had cajoled the preacher and manipulated him and his wife into letting these happen. it was a future that seemed very bleak because it was obvious we both didn't want it but Williams wasn't not man enough to do the right thing and speak up to his father, he doesn't go against his parents decisions regardless of how it may affect him and somehow my parents felt, I should act the same way. Funny. I was infuriated and fearful at the prospect of these fabricated marriage and started thinking of an escape but the thought of getting away was creepy but certainly tempting.
I stayed Depressed wondering what could've happened to Bibah and what would happen to me, thinking if my life would end these way, I stayed in a frustrated marriage for a year, without getting pregnant, because I talked Williams out of it and insisted that I'm not having children until the marriage lasts for two years meanwhile deep in my heart I was plotting an escape plan.
One fateful autumn afternoon, I got a phone call from someone in Mid-Eastern Willerbrook, immediately I heard the voice it was nobody but Bibah's voice and tears of joy and nostalgia rolled down my cheeks, my voice was barely a whisper, trembling with the weight of my reality. I listene as she spoke with joy and excitement in my heart, and for once I felt happy in my life again because a glimmer of hope suddenly resurfaced in me and she told me to meet her at the river bank beneath the Willerbrook Oak tree at dawn. I wondered how she would have possibly found my contact or who she might have gotten it from but I was too excited to be bothered about that.
Few minutes after the call I got ready and left the house without anyone seeing and it was quite a relief that these time I was going out alone, for once without Williams nor anyone asking where I'm going.
I got to the river bank, from a distance I saw a glimpse of Bibah standing under the Giant Oak Tree, I ran to her and for the first time in a long time I was truly, happy again.
I hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe, showering her with wet jammy kisses as she would love.
"I miss you so much" Bibah said staring at me with her alluring eye, it felt as if I was reborn but then I couldn't wait to tell her all that's been happening so far.
"What really happened?" asked Bibah, l waited a while before telling all that's happened and how the world that had once seemed so full of possibility now felt like a prison. Tears dropped down my face uncontrollably, "Did you ever try to get in touch with me?" I asked soberly, "Yes" said Bibah, "but I was forbidden from seeing you or contacting you, I tried all I could but it all turned void, and I was told you got married, I was confused but then I felt something weird was going on because the situation didn't just seem right but, there was nothing else I could do, I was depressed and broken."
"I'm never going to leave your side again", I thought in my heart as we reminisced on our stolen moments and planned for a future where we could be together without fear and we would find a way to be together, no matter the obstacles. As the night began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, we made a pact. No matter what happened, we would never give up on each other.
We decided to meet the following Wednesday, the only day we could both sneak away without arousing suspicion. The following Wednesday, I arrived early, wore a black Louis Vuitton Jumpsuit my heart pounding with anticipation. Bibah sat at a table, her fingers tracing the familiar grain of the wood. When i walked in, our eyes met, and for a moment, everything felt right again. I had told Williams I was going to get a book at the bookstore and stop by at my parents, so I could spend more time with Bibah, we spent the afternoon discussing our plan. Bibah had learned about an Arts scholarship in a distant Arizona, one that could provide her with the opportunity to pursue her dreams and be free from her parents' control. I, meanwhile, had discovered a university nearby that offered a comprehensive literature program. We thought it a great escape idea to apply and, if accepted, start anew in a place where we could be together without hiding.
The months that followed were filled with a mix of anxiety and excitement. We secretly prepared our applications, poured our hearts into our essays, and supported each other through the process. We continued to communicate in secret, our bond growing stronger with each day.
One crisp autumn morning, I received a letter from the school I applied. My hands trembled as i tore it open. l read the words gently, and my heart soared, she had been accepted. I went inside, locked the doors and called Bibah immediately, my voice shaking with joy.
"Bibah, I got in! I got the scholarship!"
Bibah laughed, tears of happiness streaming down her face. "I knew you would! I have good news too, I've got the Arts scholarship !"
Our dream was within reach. We began to make preparations, each step bringing us closer to our goal. We saved every penny we could, packed their belongings, and mentally prepared themselves for the journey ahead.
Finally, the day arrived. Under the pretense of visiting my parents, I left home with a suitcase in hand. Bibah did the same, telling her parents she was going on a study trip. We met at the train station, our hearts pounding with a mix of fear and excitement.
As the train pulled away from the platform, we held hands, our fingers intertwined. We watched the city fade into the distance, our old lives slipping away with it. We were heading toward a new beginning, one where we could build a life together without fear or judgment.
In Arizona city, we found a small apartment and settled into our respective schools. The days were long and challenging, but we faced each obstacle with unwavering determination and leaned on each other for support, their love a constant source of strength.
Bibah's art flourished, her sketches capturing the beauty of our new life. I excelled in my studies, my passion for literature reignited by the freedom to be myself. We made new friends who accepted us for who we were and found a community that embraced us with open arms.
Years passed, and our love only grew stronger. They often returned to the café where it all began, reminiscing about the journey that had brought us here. We knew that our story was one of resilience and hope, a testament to the power of love in the face of adversity.
I and Bibah had defied the odds, proving that true love could overcome any obstacle. We had built a life together, one filled with creativity, laughter, and endless possibilities. And as we sat hand in hand, watching the sunset from our favorite spot, we knew that our love story was far from over—it was only just beginning.
Chapter 6: The Return
"It's been Five years."
Five years since I last breathed the crisp pine-scented air of Willerbrook. Five years since I walked its cobbled streets with trembling fear in my bones. Five years since my parents handed me over to a cruel ritual disguised as righteousness, and stripped me of everything I thought I was allowed to love.
But in Arizona, we rebuilt—brick by brick, breath by breath. The desert air had dried the wounds that once bled through every corner of my soul. Our small apartment was a sanctuary of peace, the sun our silent witness. Bibah thrived in her art, and I found purpose in words. I was no longer the scared clergy's daughter—I was a woman reborn.
Then came the letter.
It arrived on a Tuesday. Plain envelope, stiff paper, familiar handwriting that hadn't touched my life in years. I almost threw it away, but curiosity—or fate—made my fingers tremble as I opened it. An invitation. My cousin Clara was getting married.
I stared at the golden lettering like it was a ghost. Willerbrook. The town where my soul had been caged and branded. A place that had tried to erase me.
But something stirred inside me—not anger, not grief. A need.
A need to be seen. A need to return—not in shame, but in strength. To show them the version of me they tried to bury, now radiant, now whole.
That evening, I sat across from Bibah. She was sketching a portrait of us—me in her hoodie, her in my glasses, both laughing—etched forever in graphite and memory.
"Let's go back," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her pencil stilled. Her eyes met mine—those warm hazel orbs that had once anchored me in the darkest sea.
"For the wedding?"
"For closure."
A beat passed. Her mouth curled, not in a smile, but in solemn understanding.
"Then let's go," she said. "But we go as us. No hiding. No apologies."
The drive to Willerbrook was like driving through time. Each mile unearthed buried memories—our secret kisses behind the chapel, the sting of the whip on my skin, the ghostly whisper of prayers laced in shame.
Willerbrook hadn't changed much. The town still smelled like woodsmoke and nostalgia. The houses stood proud, weathered by time but preserved by legacy. But as we rolled past the church where my spirit was nearly crushed, a cold wind crawled up my spine.
We checked into a modest inn at the edge of town. I could feel eyes on us—subtle, restrained, but heavy with history.
The wedding was to be held in the church—my church. The one where I had been broken, bent, and "rebuilt" into something I was never meant to be.
The Ceremony
The church was filled with faces from the past neighbors, former classmates, extended family. When I walked in with Bibah my hand laced through hers the air shifted. A collective hush fell, the kind that tightens throats and drops jaws.
We took our seats in the back, heads held high.
"I think I just saw your aunt whisper to the choir director," Bibah leaned in, her voice half amusement, half caution.
"She probably thinks I'm possessed again," I whispered back with a sardonic smile.
Dramatic irony pulsed through the air. They didn't know. They didn't know that the girl they tried to erase had returned not just unbroken—but brilliant.
The ceremony began. Clara looked radiant in her gown. I tried to focus on her vows, on the joy of the occasion—but my heart pounded like war drums.
Then, halfway through, my eyes met my mother's. She sat across the aisle, still draped in piety and pearls. Her expression was unreadable surprise, maybe? Or shame?
A pause in the ceremony gave way to murmurs, and I felt it again that shift. I turned.
The preacher had stopped reading.
He stared at me. My father's old friend. The man who'd once called me into his office and told me I was cursed.
"Is there something wrong?" Clara's voice rang out, confused.
He blinked, recovered, and cleared his throat.
"No. Let's proceed."
But something had changed. I could feel it a slow ripple of realization crawling through the crowd. Whispers spread like fire. Some recognized Bibah. Some remembered. Others never forgot.
The Encounter
After the ceremony, we tried to leave quietly, but it wasn't meant to be.
"Suga."
I turned.
My mother stood there, hands clasped like she was holding something fragile or preparing to shatter it.
She approached us slowly. Her eyes flicked to Bibah's hand in mine. For a moment, she didn't speak. The tension was unbearable.
"I didn't think you'd come," she finally said, voice tight.
"I wasn't planning to. Until I did."
Silence. Her eyes brimmed but they didn't fall.
"You look... healthy."
"I am."
She glanced at Bibah again. "Is she the reason?"
"She's part of the reason I survived."
A sharp inhale. Then, almost imperceptibly, her lip trembled. "We thought we were doing the right thing."
"I know," I said, my voice cracking despite myself. "And I thought you loved me enough to let me be who I was."
A beat.
"I did. I do."
She stepped forward slowly and touched my hand. "I don't understand everything. Maybe I never will. But I see now... what we did... it wasn't love. It was fear dressed as faith."
And just like that, the dam broke. Tears streamed down my face—not from pain, but from release. Years of anguish poured out silently in that single moment of truth.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Behind me, Bibah reached out and squeezed my hand.
Chapter 7: Healing Begins
The morning after we returned from Willerbrook, the Arizona sun poured gently into our apartment like a warm exhale. I stood by the window, watching the soft light stretch over our succulents, the woven rug we found at a thrift store, and the tiny framed photo of us in front of the Willerbrook Oak Tree—taken just last week, yet feeling like a whole other life.
I thought I'd feel triumphant. Victorious, maybe. But all I felt was stillness.
It wasn't the fiery relief I had imagined. It was something deeper—quiet, like the silence after a storm. Not the silence of devastation, but the silence of clarity.
"I don't hate her," I whispered, almost to myself.
Bibah, who had just emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of hot chai, paused mid-step. "Who?"
"My mother," I said, accepting the mug. "I wanted to hate her. I thought I needed to. But... I think I'm just tired of carrying it all."
Bibah sat beside me, brushing a stray hair behind my ear. "You don't have to forgive her today, Suga. Or even tomorrow. But the fact that you want to? That's a kind of healing too."
I sipped the chai, letting the cardamom warm my throat. "Do you think they'll ever really understand?"
"No," she said honestly. "But maybe that's not the point anymore."
Later that day, I took out the old journal I hadn't touched since we left Willerbrook. The leather was cracked, and the pages still smelled faintly of candle wax and woodsmoke. I flipped through my old entries—tears smudged on the pages, heartbreak pressed between lines, my handwriting shaky and uncertain.
I turned to a fresh page.
"I am no longer afraid of being seen. My voice will not tremble anymore. I am not asking for permission to be whole."
In the weeks that followed, life found its rhythm again. Bibah's art show at the downtown gallery was a small triumph—one of her paintings, "The River Knows," was praised by a local critic and picked up for a feminist arts magazine.
I, on the other hand, had begun mentoring two high school students who were working on essays about identity for a statewide writing contest. One of them, a seventeen-year-old girl named Kaylen, reminded me so much of myself—timid, thoughtful, always watching the world from the edges.
During one session, she lingered after class.
"Ms. Suga," she said, nervously chewing her pen cap, "can I ask something personal?"
"Of course."
"How... how do you stop being afraid of who you are?"
The question hit me like a wind to the chest. I looked at her—really looked—and saw the storm behind her eyes.
"You don't," I said gently. "You just learn how to walk through the fear anyway. And some days, you fall. But some days, you soar. The trick is to keep going until the soaring days outnumber the rest."
She nodded, tears in her eyes. "Thank you."
And in that moment, I understood. Healing wasn't some grand finale or sudden release. Healing was this—a hundred quiet moments strung together like prayer beads. A hundred small "yeses" to life, to love, to self.
One evening, while reorganizing our bookshelf, I found a small envelope wedged between two novels. No return address. The handwriting on it was unfamiliar, slanted and elegant.
I opened it cautiously.
"Suga,
I don't expect forgiveness, and I'm not sure I deserve it. But I think you should know: not everyone in that church agreed with what happened to you. Some of us were just too afraid to speak.
I was one of them.
I have since left Willerbrook. I'm trying to unlearn the harm I once helped enforce.
If you ever want to talk, my door is open.
– Sister Grace"
My hands trembled.
Bibah looked up from across the room. "What is it?"
I handed her the letter, and she read it silently. Then she folded it, carefully, and looked at me.
"You okay?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think I am."
The irony wasn't lost on me. The woman who once led my humiliation was now seeking redemption. And I... I wasn't sure yet how I felt.
But I knew one thing: healing had begun.
And I was walking into it—with open eyes, an open heart, and a love that would never again be buried.
Chapter 8: New Roots
The apartment we moved into after graduation wasn't big—two rooms, crooked floorboards, and a kitchen that hummed when the fridge ran—but it was ours. Every corner was saturated with warmth. Bibah painted one wall canary yellow because she said it made the mornings feel brighter. I filled bookshelves with paperbacks and poetry, placing framed photos between the pages like flowers pressed in time.
We were no longer just surviving.
We were living.
And yet, there was a tug. A quiet, constant call to give something back. To plant something permanent in the world that had once tried to uproot us.
It started small.
One afternoon, we saw a flyer at the community center:
"Support Needed for LGBTQ+ Youth Outreach. Volunteers Welcome."
Bibah nudged me. "Maybe we could help. Even just a few hours a week."
A few hours became full weekends. Weekends became planning meetings. Planning meetings became blueprints. And blueprints, eventually, became The Willerbrook Light Foundation—named not for the pain it gave us, but for the light we now carried beyond it.
The Foundation
We launched in a dusty office space with peeling wallpaper and one functioning computer, but it was magic. We offered writing workshops, therapy sessions, art classes, and above all—safety.
Teenagers started trickling in—some shy, some angry, some hollow-eyed with fear. Many of them, like us, came from towns where truth was treated like a disease. Where love had to be hidden in basements and whispered in code.
I watched Bibah teach a class on expressive art one afternoon, her hands stained with charcoal, her voice patient and bright. A boy named Ayo painted a black tree with gold roots and called it "Hope." That painting would hang in our office forever.
For me, it was the writing room. I would sit with kids who could barely look me in the eye and ask, "What's your story?" And slowly, they would begin to tell it. In broken sentences. In poetry. In rage. In silence.
Every story felt like a fragment of my own—and every voice that emerged made the world a little less dark.
Letters From the Past
We hadn't spoken of Sister Grace's letter again, but it lingered in a drawer beside my journal. Some nights I would reread it, trying to decipher if her guilt was real—or performative. Part of me didn't care. Part of me wanted to scream at her for her silence. But another part, the part that still believed in change, wondered what had made her finally walk away from the pulpit of shame.
One morning, as I was about to lock up the office, I noticed an envelope slid beneath the door.
This one was hand-delivered.
It read simply:
"I would like to visit. Not to speak. Just to listen. If you'll have me. – Grace."
I stared at it for a long time, my heart thudding. Bibah found me there, frozen, letter in hand.
"Is it her?"
I nodded. "She wants to come."
"And do you want her to?"
I looked around at our little sanctuary. The walls painted with stories. The books stacked with truth. The couch worn by kids who had found a place to breathe.
"Yes," I said finally. "But on my terms."
When Grace Arrived
She looked older. Not physically, but spiritually. The kind of aging that comes from reckoning with everything you were taught to believe. Her hands trembled slightly as she entered the room.
I didn't offer her tea. I didn't offer a hug.
I offered a chair. And silence.
For a long while, she just sat there, eyes roving the room. Over the painting of the black tree with golden roots. Over the books. Over the bulletin board filled with Polaroids of the kids we had helped.
And then she did something unexpected.
She cried.
Not the dramatic sobbing of someone who wanted forgiveness, but quiet tears—like someone who had been holding them for a very long time.
She said nothing. I said nothing.
That was the agreement.
But as she left, she placed something on the table—a single folded piece of paper. Inside was a typed list of names. Girls. Boys. Teens.
"These were the ones before you," the note said. "I tried to forget them. I thought silence would save me. But silence kills. This is my beginning."
The Earth Beneath Us
That night, I curled beside Bibah in bed and whispered the list out loud. We didn't know all the names, but we honored them. With candles. With poems. With the promise that they would not be forgotten again.
Bibah kissed the back of my neck. "You're still healing."
"I know," I murmured. "But now I'm not healing alone."
We spent the next few months expanding the foundation. Grants came. Volunteers came. And in time, so did stories from towns like ours. People began to write us—not just kids, but adults. Some were closeted at forty. Some were parents seeking understanding. Some were clergy members ready to burn the scripts they'd been handed.
And just like that, The Willerbrook Light became more than a place.
It became a movement.
A garden.
New roots.
And though some days still hurt, and some nights still triggered the ache of remembering, we knew this much:
We were no longer fugitives of our truth. We were its architects.
Chapter 9: The Letter
Autumn in Arizona painted the sky in hues of amber and rust, and the breeze tasted of cinnamon and change. Life at The Willerbrook Light thrived like wildflowers after the first rain—raw, radiant, untamed. We were finally rooted.
But healing has its shadows.
And sometimes, healing means standing in the dark again, willingly, so you can pull someone else into the light.
The envelope arrived on a Monday. No postmark. Hand-delivered, like the last. But this one was heavier. Not in weight, but in presence.
I opened it carefully, the thick parchment whispering secrets as I unfolded it.
_"Dear Suga,
I've spent the last five years trying to forget what we did to you. But forgetting is a coward's game.
There's something you deserve to know—something I couldn't tell you before.
You weren't the only one we 'rehabilitated.'
You were the last.
And your 'treatment' was supposed to be the most effective version yet.
You were part of something… planned. Engineered.
Please read the enclosed pages. You have a right to them.
If you still wish to speak to me after, I'll be at the same café where your story began."
– Sister Grace"_
My breath caught. My fingers trembled.
Inside the envelope were five pages—typed, clinical, emotionless. Records. Notes from my conversion therapy sessions. Margins filled with cold assessments, detached observations, and what stunned me most: measured modifications.
Dates. Techniques. Physical pain versus verbal correction. Notes on response time. Emotional breakdown cycles. It read less like healing and more like experimentation.
And worst of all, scribbled in faded pen at the top of page three:
"Subject 12. Final protocol evaluation: promising."
Subject 12.
I wasn't a daughter. I wasn't even a name.
I was an experiment.
Dramatic Irony Unfolds
For years, I thought my suffering was personal. That my parents' ignorance, their misguided faith, had driven them to punish me in the name of salvation. But this… this was systemic. Orchestrated. Sanitized cruelty parading as righteousness.
And I had no idea.
The dramatic irony of it tore at me. I had built a life—a purpose—out of what they tried to erase. But the foundation of that suffering was colder than I ever imagined. I had healed from betrayal, not knowing the full scope of the betrayal itself.
I wasn't just someone they tried to fix.
I was a case study.
Catharsis at the Café
I almost didn't go.
But something pulled me there.
The café was quiet when I arrived. A soft jazz melody danced beneath the smell of roasted beans and honey pastries. It was the same place where Bibah and I had met that Wednesday, years ago, to whisper about escape. A full circle I didn't ask for—but needed.
Grace sat at a corner table, her face weary, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup like it was the only warmth she had left.
She looked up when she saw me. No smile. Just recognition.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she said softly.
"I wasn't sure either."
I sat.
A long silence passed. Then I placed the pages on the table between us.
"You knew," I said, my voice controlled but tight. "You watched it happen."
She nodded slowly. "I didn't just watch. I helped write the protocols. We were told we were saving souls. That love had to be broken to be purified."
I flinched at the word broken.
"And you believed that?" I asked.
"I was raised to. Until you."
I blinked. "Me?"
She exhaled shakily. "You didn't shatter. You didn't cave. Even after all we did, your eyes… they still had fire. I didn't see sin. I saw humanity. I saw truth."
I leaned forward. "And that was enough to make you leave?"
She nodded. "You lit the match. But I had to find the courage to burn everything I believed in."
I stared at her. For a moment, I imagined the version of her who once raised a whip in prayer, her eyes glazed in ritual, her mouth filled with false mercy.
And then I saw the woman in front of me. The one whose hands trembled. Who was asking—not for forgiveness—but for understanding.
"I don't hate you," I said. "But I don't trust you either."
Her shoulders dropped like a weight had been released.
"I'm not asking for that," she whispered. "Only that you tell the others."
I frowned. "What others?"
Grace reached into her bag and handed me a list—twenty-two names. Teens from small towns, devout homes, southern churches. All sent to different "rehab" centers across the country. Some succeeded in escaping. Some didn't.
"I've been tracking them down," she said. "Some are lost. Some want help. I don't have access to all of them. But you do. You and the foundation. They'll trust you."
I sat back, the weight of the paper heavy in my hands. So much more than a list. These were stories. Wounds. Futures.
"Will you help them?" she asked quietly.
I didn't answer right away. My eyes scanned the café. Two girls sat at a nearby table, giggling over a shared cupcake. Free. Unbothered.
I looked back at Grace. "We already are."
Reckoning and Renewal
That night, I showed the list to Bibah.
She read each name slowly, as though they were psalms.
"We'll find them," she said.
I nodded. "We'll offer what no one offered us."
We created a new program: The Unwritten. For the forgotten. For the "subjects" who deserved to become people again. To write their stories, not as test cases—but as survivors. Artists. Lovers. Humans.
And in doing so, I reclaimed my final scar.
Not by burying it.
But by shining a light so blinding on it that no one could ignore it again.
Chapter 10: The Unwritten
The list stayed folded on my desk for three days.
Twenty-two names. Twenty-two stories not yet told. I kept rereading them like scripture—like each name could summon something from me I hadn't yet given.
Some had phone numbers, others just towns. A few were likely outdated. But the names pulsed on the page like beacons in fog, each one a survivor of something too familiar.
I couldn't sleep. I'd find myself wide awake at 2 a.m., sitting beside the window, watching the desert wind toss the trees, wondering if those names still belonged to people… or memories.
Reaching Out
We decided to begin with the few who had email addresses. Carefully, Bibah and I crafted a message:
"You may not remember us. But if you've ever been to a place like Willerbrook—if you've ever been made to feel less than for who you love—we want you to know: you were not alone. We were there too. And we survived. This is not a summons. It's an invitation. To speak. To write. Or to simply be seen."
We signed it:
– Suga & Bibah | The Willerbrook Light Foundation
Three days passed. Then the responses started coming.
One email stood out. The subject line read:
"I've never told anyone."
"My name is Emmanuel, but they used to call me 'Manuel' to make me sound less soft. I was Subject 7. I was thirteen.
I still wake up sweating.
But I want to speak. I think I need to.
Tell me how."
I stared at the screen, mouth slightly open. Bibah read it behind me, her hand coming to rest softly on my back.
"We have to meet him," I said.
Emmanuel
He agreed to meet in a small community library in Flagstaff. We wore our foundation shirts, not for pride, but as armor.
He arrived wearing an oversized hoodie and a look that flickered between courage and collapse. His eyes—dark and guarded—met mine like he was looking for a piece of his own story in my face.
"I thought I was going crazy," he said, voice thin. "Until your email. I didn't even remember your name, but when I saw 'Willerbrook' I—" His voice cracked. "I knew I wasn't making it up."
He talked for hours. About the cold metal chairs. The locked doors. The verse-recitation punishments. The way they taught him to fear mirrors. They told him every time he smiled, it was the devil creeping in.
I felt bile rise in my throat.
He looked at me, eyes rimmed red. "You smiled anyway, didn't you?"
I nodded. "I still do."
The Unwritten Begins
That night, we launched a new program.
The Unwritten.
A digital and physical archive. A writing and art-based healing project for survivors of conversion therapy, religious abuse, and forced silence. We offered guided prompts, private one-on-one mentorship, group healing circles, and anonymous publishing.
The tagline read:
"For the stories that were erased, silenced, or punished out of us."
We received submissions from over 30 states within the first two weeks. A girl from Alabama wrote a poem titled "Don't Baptize My Bones." A trans man from Oklahoma wrote an essay called "The Gospel According to Me." Emmanuel, in his first recorded voice memo, simply said: "My name is Emmanuel. And I am real."
Each submission lit a new lantern in our archive.
And every time a new name entered the system, I'd whisper it softly. Like a prayer. Like a resurrection.
Facing My Father
One name on the list never left me: Subject 1.
I knew who it was. I'd seen him once, years ago, before it was my turn. A boy with a permanent bruise under his eye and a look of empty knowing. He never spoke to anyone. One day he was there. The next, he was gone.
I asked Grace about him in a follow-up call.
Her voice was hesitant. "He… he didn't make it, Suga."
The silence between us was a scream.
I sat in that ache for days.
And then I did something unexpected.
I wrote a letter to my father.
"Dear Dad,
I used to dream of becoming small enough to disappear inside your approval.
But now I only wish you'd seen me before the world did.
You gave them the permission to break me.
And still, somehow, I rose.
I don't write to ask for your forgiveness.
I write to forgive myself—for loving you even when you didn't love me right.
I survived.
And I'm telling the world what happened here.
Not to destroy you.
But to rebuild what you tried to erase."
I never mailed it. I didn't have to. Writing it was enough.
Truth as Revolution
The Unwritten became more than a program—it became a reckoning. Survivors were finding each other in hashtags, group chats, care circles, and safe houses. They were learning that they weren't anomalies.
They were a generation.
A generation that had been silenced, scripted, and scorched—but not erased.
And through it all, I kept writing.
Because now I understood:
Our stories aren't a rebellion. They're a revolution.