When I take a breath, something about her kind smile calms me. It’s not threatening. It’s…knowing.
I finish my shift a couple hours later. Clock out. Pull on my hoodie. My hands shake a little when I push the door open and step into the overcast gray. I doubt the woman would wait this long.
Sure enough, though, she’s leaning against a blue sedan. Smiles when she sees me.
“Sorry if this is weird.” She wrinkles her nose. “When I came in a couple weeks ago, something about you brought back some memories for me.”
I nod, unsure how to respond.
“I used to be where you are,” she adds. “Staring into space. Robotic politeness. Deep, bone-chilling terror. I see it in your eyes.”
I glance down at the gravel. This conversation is making me extremely uncomfortable.
“Forgive me for being blunt. Have you escaped from somewhere fundamentally religious?”
I freeze. I don’t recognize the term, but I understand intrinsically what she’s asking.
She whispers, “Yeah. I thought so. Me too.”
A long silence settles. The wind kicks up. I hug my arms around myself.
“You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart.” She crouches down to catch my gaze. “I only want you to know you’re not crazy. You’re not alone. What you’re feeling? The shame. The confusion. The fear. It’s valid. It’ll get better.”
I look up at her, tears sting my eyes.
“I couldn’t live a normal life for years without crying,” she confesses. “I couldn’t date. I felt out of place. Like I was a demon in disguise.”
Tears spill before I can stop them.
She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out abusiness card.
“There’s a group here in Tacoma. Therapy for people recovering from purity culture. All of the counselors are survivors themselves. It helped me. Saved me, really.”
I take the card.
Her name is Megan Malloy. She gives me her personal number.
“Please don’t go back.” She takes my hand. “Whatever they told you, shame isn’t salvation. Silence isn’t virtue. You deserve your own voice. Call the number any time, you’re not alone.”
With a quick wave, she gets in her car and drives away.
I stare at the card in my hand until my fingers go numb.
Black ink on soft cream paper. No cross. No scripture. A name, a phone number, and a small, hand-drawn spiral. The walk home feels longer today with the card in my coat pocket. Every few blocks, I touch it again. As if it might vanish if I don’t keep checking.
My mind whirls around the concept of help.
I have no idea what to think.
Back home, help meant confession. Kneeling in the prayer tent for hours. Fasting until the world tilted. Chanting until your soul felt scraped raw.
Help meant silence. Obedience. Suffering. Earned pain was proof you were worthy of salvation.
This? A stranger with caring eyes and a business card? I don’t know how to trust it.
I do know something in my chest is shifting. There’s a stir I don’t understand.
At the house, no one’s around. My bunkmate’s probably still at work. The bathroom’s empty. I lock the door, just in case. Sit on the toilet lid and take out the card again.
