My favorite time of the week had come.
Sunday.
I felt their eyes on me — the people in the church. I pretended not to notice, because this was supposed to be the one place where you could be accepted as you were. No judgment. No whispers.
That's what they said, anyway.
But we're all human.
So of course they watched. Of course they murmured.
My mom had already saved face, telling people in the church it was lice. Said I caught it from somebody else in school, and shaving me was the only way to keep it from spreading.
"It really pained me to do it," she said, hand pressed to her chest. "I loved her hair. It was unique."
That lying bitch.
One older woman nodded in sympathy.
"When I was younger, you'd catch them little critters three times before the summer ended. It's good it was only a one-time thing, but a bit of advice — vinegar rinse or mayonnaise. Works like a charm." She winked.
Then another chimed in.
"She's looking more and more like her dad. That bald head only makes the features more pronounced. Hey, Rhea — I served with your father years back. You've got his whole face."
Let's get this out of the way: I didn't even know this bitch. And here she was, telling me about a man who's never been in my life, like we were old family friends.
It seemed my mom didn't like it either, because her jaw tightened even though she kept smiling.
"I guess she does."
"So where is he? You two are still together, right?"
Ouch.
That hit a nerve. A very visible wound on my mom. And as much as I wanted to be happy she got hurt — I couldn't. Because at the end of the day, this woman was insulting me too.
By then I'd learned to pick up on that kind of thing. Her eyes weren't sincere when she asked. They reminded me of Ellie. Of Nicole. Mockery disguised as curiosity.
So much tension in the church.
Wasn't this supposed to be the house of the Lord?
Before my mom could answer, the pastor signaled for everyone to take a seat.
Saved by the civil servant, am I right?
The pastor scanned the congregation from the podium.
"If you've got something weighing on you, if you've got a burden you can't carry alone, come to the front. Pray. Leave it at the altar."
People started moving. Old, young. One by one, they lined up — all of them desperate for some kind of release. For the weight to be gone.
And me?
I just couldn't hold it in anymore.
The weight of that week pressed down on me. Heavy. Crushing. I just wanted it gone. I just wanted to confess it, even if I couldn't say the words out loud.
So I went up there.
Walking down the aisle was nerve-wracking. I'm not one for attention. Passing by the ones who didn't go up felt like judgment. Less than twenty steps, but it felt like a twenty-minute walk.
I was sure they could see my sin.
I dropped to my knees and prayed like it was the only thing left that could save me.
By the end of service, everyone was shaking hands and saying their goodbyes. The usual fake smiles, the "God bless you's," the hugs that meant nothing.
That fake purity and Christian morality always peeled off as soon as they were a few blocks away.
I stayed close to my mom's side, flipping through the Bible like I didn't care, skimming pages while she chatted with people she knew. That's when a woman walked up, her voice familiar: Terry. A friend my mom had made through my dad.
"Oh, hey!" my mom greeted, more welcoming, less clinical and automatic. This was actual warmth. They chatted a bit—small talk about work, kids, nothing. Then my mom's smile thinned, and she leaned in conspiratorially.
My ears perked up.
Usually when Terry came around, my mom kept her distance from me, like she didn't want me to hear. My guess? It had to be about my dad. And this time, I was right.
"Hey, can I ask… what's with that woman? The one with the blonde pixie cut, over there in the green. She kept going on about Rhea's father. Do you know her?"
Terry glanced back. "Who, Marionette?"
I had to resist the need to roll my eyes and sigh.
No bitch, the other lady in the green with a blonde pixie cut.
Sometimes I couldn't tell if Terry was trying to play coy or if she was just that fucking dense.
"What about her?"
"She was asking if I was still with Liam. If Rhea sees him. Stuff like that."
Terry's brow furrowed. She looked at my mom like she'd just misheard.
"What do you mean? She knew you two weren't together. She was at the wedding."
My mom's lips pressed into a grim smile. She looked past Terry, straight at Marianette, daggers in her glistening eyes.
She was sticking a knife in my mother's wound, and at the time I couldn't understand why.
As an adult, I figured it out. She probably wanted to fuck my dad. And was bitter at everyone who got a taste of that communal dick and was left with proof of their coupling.
But little Rhea? No. She didn't understand.
And as I looked at my mom's clenched hands by her side, I knew one thing for sure.
I felt bad for her.
I realized she was fighting her own battles. I guess I was a wise kid. So yeah, I did feel a bit of pity for her.
Momentarily.
It didn't last long.
It didn't.
It did not last long at all.
Because then she noticed me listening. And she gave me that look — the one that promised, clear as day, that when we got home, I was going to get ever bit of rage and pain she was feeling: Ten-fold.
So that momentary lapse of pity turned into fear.
I just couldn't catch a break.
A rod to the lightening.
She said her goodbyes to Terry, and as we were leaving, the pastor stopped her.
He was lean and tall, maybe in his late fifties, with bright hazel eyes and short salt-and-pepper hair slicked back.
"Hey, Lynn," he said gently. "I sense a lot of tension and stress in you. How are you feeling?"
For some reason, it looked like she couldn't lie to the pastor. Maybe she felt vulnerable enough to let some of it out.
She let her walls down a bit.
I could tell she was more mad than sad, but she leaned into the sadness. Rage would've been too impure for Pastor Taylor.
"It's just, Rhea's… It's fine, Pastor Taylor."
He looked at her, then looked at me, pity in his eyes. Understanding.
"How about I come over Wednesday evening with an associate of mine, and we can have a Bible study?"
"I don't know, Pastor…"
My mom hesitated, but when Pastor Taylor held her hand and gave her a small smile, she finally nodded.
"Okay. Wednesday."
After talking to Pastor Taylor, she seemed to relax a bit. The earlier hostility she'd been aiming at me, that cold vibe that promised a beating that a catholic nun would be in awe of seemed to dissipate.
And I was thankful for his intervention.
So thankful. You have no idea.
We got in the car, and it was another—quiet drive home.
She didn't snap at me. She didn't curse. She just went to her room and retired for the day.
Thank God.