Princess
Sunday | 10:30am
The next morning, the choir nearly lifted the ceiling with their singing. Harmonies echoed through Greater Montgomery Baptist Church like angels danced on the rafters. People had their hands raised, eyes closed, mouths open, crying, swaying, or mumbling in tongues. I just sat stiff, legs crossed, eyes open, heart stone cold. I felt nothing.
The sanctuary attached to our home gleamed with gold accents and red pews, every inch showing money and tradition. Each week, it was packed with people in their best suits, dresses, and hats. They came desperate for the Lord’s word, or at least Zeke Montgomery’s version.
My father stood at the pulpit, smug. He wore a custom navy suit, a matching pocket square, and held that heavy Bible like a trophy. His other hand was raised, dramatic, and his voice boomed through the mic like thunder. He preached about loyalty, obedience, and staying on the righteous path.
I knew that sermon by heart. I’d heard versions of it since I could hold a hymnal. In truth, Zeke preached loyalty to him, obedience to his rules, and righteousness as whatever benefited him that week. His voice rolled through the sanctuary like a storm, but it didn’t move me. Not even a little. Still, I kept my expression neutral, as trained: chin up, back straight, nod on cue, smile when necessary.
“Can I get an amen?” he thundered.
“Amen!” the congregation shouted back in perfect unison. I didn’t say a word.
My mother sat beside me, hands folded in her lap, pearl earrings catching the light. She looked picture perfect, like one of those first ladies on church flyers. She was always graceful, well-put-together, and the vision of perfection. But she had survived under my father’s thumb longer than I’d been alive. That was the difference: she had learned to braid elegance around her pain. I could see exhaustion flickering beneath her polished surface, a tiredness that never truly faded.
I shifted in my seat, scanning the sanctuary. I spotted Don posted in his usual spot at the back, stretched out like he owned the place. His arms slung over the pew, smug, like everything belonged to him, including me. His eyes locked on mine; hissmirk said it all.You’re mine.My stomach turned, but I held steady, not giving him a reaction.
My father’s voice rose, loud and sharp. “A woman’s duty,” he declared, “is to be a pillar beside her husband. To lift him up and support his vision…”
I was done. I stood up in the middle of his sermon, my chair scraping the floor. Gasps tore through the crowd, sharp as shattered glass. Heads snapped toward me, eyes wide, while my mother’s trembling fingers caught my wrist, her touch desperate, begging me not to go.
Don’t do this.
I pulled away and walked straight down the center aisle like I was walking a damn runway. My heels echoed with every step. I didn’t care who was watching and what they whispered. I could feel the weight of my father’s stare drilling into my back. Let him watch me walk away.
Later on, I awoke from a nap and headed down to his office. The sweet scent of incense and lilies gave way to the smell of old wood, leather, and his cologne. I pushed the old, creaky door open to see him standing by the window with a glass of liquid I knew was Hennessy.
“Princess.”
I closed my eyes, gripped the edge of my shirt with one hand, and exhaled slowly, bracing myself for the confrontation.
“That was quite the statement you made today,” he said, voice smooth, like it didn’t matter that I embarrassed him in front of half the city.
I raised an eyebrow, stepping further into the dimly lit office. “Walking out of a sermon is a statement now?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
I crossed my arms. “Do I? Or do I just know that you've been recycling that same misogynistic speech since I was thirteen? ‘A woman’s duty’ this, ‘a woman’s place’ that. You’re not preaching God, Daddy. You’re preachingcontrol.”
His jaw ticked. “You will not speak to me with such disrespect.”
“Then maybe stop speaking to me like I’m still a child. I’ll be thirty soon.”
“Three years is hardly soon.” There was a pause. A long, quiet moment that felt like the calm before a storm. Then he stepped forward, his shadow falling over my petite stature. His voice dropped low. “You are my child, and you will do as you are fucking told.” There it was. No more mask or holy man. Just the tyrant I’d always known was underneath.
I let out a bitter laugh. “And there it is. Therealpreacher.”
“Youwillmarry Don.”
“No,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I won’t.”
His expression twisted. “Princess, this shit isn’t a debate.”
I squared my shoulders. “And I’m not asking for permission to livemylife anymore.”
His hand flexed by his side, fingers curling and uncurling, tension visible in every movement. For a moment, I was sure he’d put his hands on me. But he only dragged his palm downhis jacket, jaw clenching as he swallowed whatever dark thought twisted behind his eyes, and nodded once, as if he’d measured out the price of my defiance.
