I recognize all of them. Mrs. Garrison from the feed store. Mrs. Peterson from the hardware store. Ellen Mackenzie, who runs the bakery. Women I’ve known my whole life, women who watched me grow up, who pinched my cheeks and asked about my grades and told me what a blessing I was to my father.
Now they’re staring at me like I’m a stranger, and even worse than that, like I’m some sort of threat. The whispers start almost immediately. Hushed voices behind cupped hands.
Did you hear? Can you believe she married a Bishop?I catch fragments, enough to understand the shape of what they’re saying, even if I can’t make out every word.
My chest tightens. This was a mistake. I should turn around, find Levi, go back to the ranch and the safety of walls that don’t judge me. I should never have come.
I’m already stepping backward toward the door when my father’s voice cuts through the whispers.
“Saint can work the book table.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Doesn’t cross the room or pull me into a hug. He just sets down the stack of hymnals in his hands and gestures vaguely toward the corner where donated paperbacks are piled in cardboard boxes.
“We’re shorthanded,” he adds, still not meeting my eyes. “Could use the help.”
The other women exchange glances.
Mrs. Garrison opens her mouth like she’s about to object, but something in my father’s posture stops her. He’s protecting me, I realize, in his own stilted, uncomfortable way. Giving me a reason to stay that has nothing to do with him wanting me here.
“Thank you,” I manage.
He nods once, brief and businesslike, then turns back to his own work.
The distance between us feels like miles. Things have been tense between us since he came to the house. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to bridge that gap right now. Not when I can’t tell him the truth yet.
I take my place at the book table anyway because it’s better than running and proving everyone right about the preacher’s daughter who married a monster.
For the next hour, I lose myself in the simple rhythm of work. Sorting paperbacks by genre. Pricing old hardcovers. Arranging donated Bibles and devotionals in neat rows. The whisperscontinue at the edges of my awareness, but I push them down, refuse to let them take root. Fuck it, I think, surprising myself with the vehemence. I can’t change who I married.
Can’t undo the brand on my hip or the ring on my finger. But I can decide whether I let the whispers define me. Whether I shrink into nothing or stand tall despite it all.
The girl I was before would have cared desperately what these women thought. Would have crumbled under their judgment, apologized for existing, tried to make herself small enough to be acceptable.
That girl is dead. I’m someone new now. Someone forged in fire and fear. And this new version of me refuses to break.
“You always did have a knack for organization.”
I startle at my father’s voice. He’s standing beside me, studying the neat rows of paperbacks I’ve arranged by author. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me directly since pointing me toward the book table.
“Your mother was the same way,” he adds quietly. “Everything had its place.”
“I miss her.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Especially lately.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I expect him to walk away, to retreat to that careful distance he’s been keeping. Instead, he sighs, heavy and tired.
“I don’t understand your choices, Saintlyn.” His voice is low, meant only for me. “I don’t understand any of this, and I won’t even lie and say the day will come when I do, because I don’t think it ever will.”
“Dad—”
“But you’re an adult.” He cuts me off, jaw tight. “I can’t stop you from living the life you’ve chosen. Even if it’s not the life I wanted for you.”
It stings more than I expected. The quiet resignation in his voice. The way he won’t quite look at me even now.
“I love you, Dad.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
His hand finds mine and squeezes it once. “I love you too, sweetheart. That’s never going to change.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, there’s a crack in his composure. “But I need time. To process. To accept. Can you give me that?”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
