The morning after the lake, the thought still clung to me like a sickness.
I tried to shake it off—through prayer, through work, through silence—but it remained, whispering, another way… another way…
Maplewood was loud with gossip that week. Someone's boy was caught sneaking liquor from his father's shed, another girl was rumored to be "wayward" after missing Sunday service. People here loved sin—not their own, but the scent of someone else's.
Rebecca walked beside me down Main Street, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders though the day wasn't cold. She avoided every eye, afraid that every glance carried suspicion. I wanted to protect her, to shield her from the stares I imagined were already forming.
But all I could offer was a plan I wasn't sure God Himself would forgive.
---
We stopped at Jenkins' store. The bell over the door rang, and the familiar scent of coffee and sawdust hit me. Inside stood Henry Wilson, his suit pressed as though it had never known sweat, his hair slicked with oil. He greeted Jenkins with the kind of smile reserved for men who never worried about bills.
Henry Wilson. A banker. A man whose house stood tall at the edge of town, overlooking us all like a king in his castle. He had no children. Everyone knew it, though no one dared say why.
As he turned, his eyes briefly flicked to Rebecca. Then to me. He offered a polite nod, but something in his gaze lingered—measuring, curious.
My stomach turned cold.
---
That night, the thought grew claws.
Rebecca sat on the porch, sewing in silence. I stood leaning against the rail, watching the fireflies blink in the dark. The weight of my words at the lake still hung between us.
Finally, she spoke. "You were serious, weren't you?"
I didn't answer right away. The night hummed with crickets, filling the gap where my conscience should have spoken.
"Daniel," she pressed, her voice trembling. "Tell me you didn't mean it."
I turned to her, my jaw tight. "What choice do we have, Rebecca? Tell me. Your father will throw you out. The church will tear us apart. And this child—our child—will suffer for our shame."
She gripped the fabric in her lap so tightly the needle pricked her finger. A small drop of blood stained the cloth. She didn't even flinch.
"And you think selling him—our baby—to strangers is the answer?" Her voice broke on the word selling.
I closed my eyes. "Not selling. Giving. To someone who can provide. To someone who won't let the child grow up marked by our mistakes."
Rebecca laughed bitterly, a sound that hurt worse than her tears. "You want to dress it up with words, Daniel, but sin is sin. Do you really think God won't see it?"
Her question silenced me. Because she was right. God sees everything.
But I was a desperate man. And desperation makes sin look like salvation.
---
The following Sunday, we sat in church. Pastor Greene's sermon thundered about Abraham's sacrifice—about how obedience sometimes meant giving up what you love most. The congregation nodded and murmured their amens.
My chest tightened. His words felt aimed at me, as though God Himself was placing the knife in my hand.
Rebecca sat rigid beside me, her face pale, her hands clutching her Bible. She wouldn't look at me. But when the pastor said, "Sometimes God tests us with the unthinkable," her grip tightened, and I felt her body shake.
Maybe she heard it too.
---
That evening, I found myself walking toward the Wilson estate.
The house loomed like a fortress, its windows glowing with warm light, laughter faintly drifting through the glass. Wealth lived here. Safety lived here. The kind of life I could never give.
My fist hovered at the door.
One knock. That's all it would take.
Inside, I imagined Henry Wilson turning toward me with his measured smile. I imagined his wife's face lighting up at the suggestion of a child, of hope they'd never been able to buy.
My knuckles grazed the wood. Then froze.
Because in that moment, I heard Rebecca's voice in my head: "Do you really think God won't see it?"
I lowered my hand. My chest heaved.
The door never opened.But the seed had been planted.
And once a seed is sown in darkness, it grows.