Sunday mornings in Maplewood had a rhythm older than the town itself.
The bell at St. Luke's tolled steady and sure, echoing through the air like a call no one dared to ignore. Families poured onto Main Street in their best clothes—men in stiff jackets, women in pressed skirts, children tugged along by the hand, faces scrubbed clean.
Rebecca and I walked side by side, but not together. Her arm brushed mine every so often, yet there was no warmth in the touch. Her eyes stayed on the ground, as though the dirt was easier to face than the people who greeted us with smiles.
"Morning, Daniel," Old Mrs. Thompson said, lifting her basket of flowers in greeting.
I forced a smile. "Morning, ma'am."
Rebecca didn't speak. She just walked faster.
Inside the church, the air was thick with the scent of wax candles and polished wood. The choir was already humming the opening hymn, their voices rising and falling like waves. I slid into our usual pew halfway down the aisle. Rebecca followed but sat stiffly, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles blanched.
Pastor Gregory stood at the pulpit, a tall man with silver hair that gleamed under the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. His voice filled the sanctuary, rich and commanding.
"Brothers and sisters, today's message is from Genesis 22," he began, opening his Bible. "The story of Abraham and Isaac. A story of faith. A story of trust. A story of sacrifice."
At the word sacrifice, my stomach clenched.
Rebecca shifted beside me, her breath catching. I glanced at her, but her gaze stayed locked on the pastor, eyes wide and unblinking.
Pastor Gregory's words rolled on, steady as a hammer striking the same nail. "Abraham was asked to give up his most precious gift. His son. His future. His promise. And though his heart must have broken, he obeyed. He trusted that God would provide."
My palms went damp. Every sentence felt like a spotlight burning across my chest. I wasn't Abraham. I wasn't offering sacrifice to God. I was bargaining, twisting, scheming—willing to sell what should never be sold.
I bowed my head, whispering a prayer I didn't believe: Lord, don't let him see me. Don't let anyone see me.
Beside me, Rebecca's lips trembled. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap as though she wanted to stand, to flee, to scream. Then, suddenly, she leaned close, her whisper so sharp it cut.
"Do you hear him, Daniel?"
I froze. "What?"
She didn't take her eyes off the pulpit. "He's talking about us."
"No," I hissed, panic rising. "It's just a sermon—"
Her voice trembled but grew harder. "No. It's a warning. God is warning us."
Her words pierced deeper than the pastor's sermon. My chest ached with the weight of it. Was she right? Or was it only guilt twisting every word into judgment?
Up front, Pastor Gregory raised his hand. His voice thundered now, echoing against the wooden beams. "And the angel of the Lord called out—'Do not lay a hand on the boy! For now I know you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.'"
The congregation murmured amen. The choir's hum swelled again. But my mind was not on Isaac or Abraham.
It was on Rebecca's hand slipping from mine, inch by inch, until her palm lay cold against the pew, empty.
I stared at the space between us. A gap no wider than a hand, but in truth, it was an ocean.
When the closing hymn rose, the voices of the congregation blending in praise, I could not sing. My throat was locked, my lips dry. I glanced at Rebecca one last time.
Her eyes were closed, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. She didn't reach for me. She didn't look at me.
And in that silence, I realized something worse than judgment had come upon us.
We were already being separated—not by God, not by the church, but by the sin we were too afraid to name out loud.