“What do you truly want?” Elijah asks. “Stripped of guilt and obligation and fear. What does your heart tell you?”
“I want her.” The confession tears from somewhere deep inside me. “I want the baby. I want this unconventional family we’ve built.” My hands curl into fists on my lap. “But I also want to be worthy. I want redemption for my past failures.”
“Redemption doesn’t come from a ceremony or a title.” Elijah’s hand covers my shoulder, stilling the tension there. “It comes from living with integrity and love. From choosing what’s right even when it’s hard.”
I look at him, at his angelic face serious in the moonlight. “Do you ever regret not becoming a priest?”
His smile is sad. “I regret nothing about the path that led me to this moment. To this family.” He squeezes my hand. “Whatever you decide, we’ll support you. But you need to decide for yourself. Not for the Church. Not for your guilt. Not even for Charlie. For yourself.”
He stands, preparing to leave, but pauses at the top of the stairs. “Think about what kind of father you want to be. What kind of man. Then choose accordingly.”
I sit alone in the darkness, the letter in my pocket feeling heavier with each passing moment.
I imagine accepting the priesthood, being transferred to some parish three states away where I’d never see Charlie again.
Never watch her body swell with pregnancy. Never hold the baby that might be mine.
But I also imagine the redemption Father Castellano is offering.
The chance to be Father Reyes instead of the man who almost destroyed himself for Isabella.
The authority to consecrate the Eucharist, to hear confessions, to serve God in the way I once believed was my calling.
My phone buzzes with a text from Charlie.
Are you okay? I miss you.
Simple words that make my chest ache with longing and fear in equal measure. I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, knowing that whatever I choose will change everything.
And I still don’t know what I’m going to do.
48
ELIJAH
I watch from the choir loft window as Marcus stands in the church parking lot, his arms crossed over his chest in that defensive posture he adopts when he’s fighting himself.
Isabella’s car is packed, boxes visible through the rear window, her entire life in this town reduced to what fits in a sedan.
She stands a few feet away from him, maintaining the careful distance that speaks of acceptance rather than hope.
Even from this height, I can see the sadness in her posture, the way her shoulders curve inward like she’s protecting herself from a blow that’s already landed.
Marcus says something I can’t hear, and Isabella nods.
Her hand rises like she might touch his arm then falls back to her side.
The aborted gesture makes my chest ache with sympathy I didn’t expect to feel. She loved him, in her way. It wasn’t healthy or real, but it was love nonetheless.
I think about Charlie sleeping in her small apartment above the rectory, her hand resting protectively on her stomach even in sleep.
About the baby growing inside her that might be Marcus’s, might be Adrian’s, might be mine.
About the family we’ve built in shadows that’s finally stepping into light. Isabella deserves to find that kind of love too, the real kind that doesn’t require fantasy or waiting or becoming someone you’re not.
Marcus pulls something from his pocket, and I watch Isabella take it. Money, probably. Enough to help her start over somewhere new. She tries to refuse, but he insists, and finally she accepts with a nod that looks like surrender.
They talk for a few more minutes, their conversation quiet, sad, and necessary.
