Chapter 51
Morgan
The attack stops, and slowly, I realize I’m curled into a ball on the bed, my hands and arms shielding my face. I pry them away.
Mother glares down at me, her face sharp and cruel. I glance at Dad, gobsmacked that he didn’t intervene.
I stare at them both, my cheek burning, and for one sick second I do not know who raised me. Not really.
These are not my parents as I understood them.
They are two frightened strangers in expensive clothes, guarding a kingdom built on lies.
“Dad?” I murmur, my voice shaky.
“Him! Forget him,” she says. “I sacrificed everything for this family. Your father can’t keep his wandering desires in his pants.”
I gasp. It’s true.
“You know?” I say, breathless.
“Of course I know. Why do you think I take such long trips? My husband is an unfaithful mess. I am a good wife. I didn’t fail. I stay by his side for the empire we built.”
“How... what?”
She fusses with her hair and tugs on her clothes, collecting herself little by little.
“You speak of love like one man outweighs the church. Fifty-thousand people attend our services every week. Millions stream. We’re televised now. And you dare test God’s will? You dare think one nonbeliever is not more important than the many souls served by our church. How selfish.”
Her words sting. They’re meant to.
With great caution, I shift off of the other side of the bed, using the mattress as a barrier between us.
“You’re frauds,” I say, keeping my eyes on my mother. “Do you expect me to live in a fake marriage like you?”
“We taught her nothing,” Mother snaps, scolding Dad.
He waves her off, too tired or indifferent to her words to fight back.
I clutch my chest. My heart bleeds knowing my parents shamed me for loving an atheist. Meanwhile, they were living a double life.
One built on sin, but rationalized by a greater good.
I looked down on Jack for not believing.
Like if only he would believe, he’d be good enough to live in my world.
To stand by me on a stage. Instead, I hid him.
I let the world believe I was still engaged to someone perceived more righteous.
Blake.
The name sends a shiver down my spine.
I glance at my father. “Blake said he loved someone else. It wasn’t an old girlfriend in New York. Was it? It was you.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t speak.
That’s when I see it. Something deeper than a man coming to terms with being exposed as a liar. It’s bigger than him giving in to desires of the flesh.
I think... he loves him.
Maybe, that’s the real shame he projects on me.
I shake my head, absolutely disgusted.
“Wow. You would rather Blake marry your daughter than hold the hand of the person you love proudly. Blake’s your atheist — your forbidden love. This whole time, you’ve been making me feel bad for doing the thing you only wish you had the courage to.”
“There’s a cost!” he bites back.
“Yes, there is,” I agree. “But all the fame and gold in the world isn’t worth living a lie. God wouldn’t want this.” I look at Mom. “You drink yourself to death because you don’t want it, either.”
For the first time, she doesn’t defend herself.
They’re both exposed, ashamed and hurting.
“And Jack,” I whisper, and place my hands in prayer, letting the love I have for him overflow from my heart.
“God made his soul for me, and mine for him.” My eyes flick to Dad.
“But you broke what was mine every chance you got. I’ll spend the rest of my life putting him back together, even if he won’t marry me.
Even if he doesn’t believe. Even if I lose everything to stand by him in public. ”
“Sweetheart,” Dad says, his voice aching. He searches for words. He tries to step closer, but I hold up my hand.
Because while I was trying to make Jack fit this family, this church, this life, my parents were using all of it like a weapon.
No wonder Jack doubted our future. He saw it. He tried to tell me, even when he couldn't speak it, he showed it.
And I was blind.
“You saw a threat in Jack. You saw him preach back then, didn’t you? You knew he was better than you, so you built a church so big, it would outshine him.”
“He was an eighteen-year-old punk. I wasn’t threatened,” he growls, but his voice wobbles.
“You were! Live your goddamn truth, Dad.”
This time, I don’t cover my mouth after cursing. I meant it. I said it. If that’s what it takes to break through my father’s own walls, then so be it.
“Damn it!” he yells, causing his jugular to bulge from his neck. “Yes. I saw him preach. I was threatened. Is that what you want? Your father as a weak man? A gay man?” He drags his palms down his face.
His confession lands like a slap he didn't mean to give. I see him now. All of him. And it's ugly.
He was envious. Self-loathing. He touched another that wasn't his. He's a sinner of the worst kind because he preaches to seek forgiveness when he needs it the most.
I hate what he did.
I hate what it cost Jack.
I hate that part of me still sees my father inside this broken man.
But I do.
So I give him what he did not give me: Freedom to choose.
Slowly, I shake my head. “There’s nothing weak about living in reality. It’s not easy, but it’s where I want to be. Because the love is real.” It hurts, but I swallow my pride and wrap my arms around him. “I love you.”
I mean that, too.
There might be bile on my tongue, but there will always be love in my heart for this man. I have to believe some piece of him did those awful things out of love for me and not for the church.
That is what I tell myself. It is the only thing keeping me from breaking down. I need to survive this moment, even if I have to lie to myself.
He holds me for a long moment, and I let him. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t need to. I feel it in his body as it softens in surrender.
He pats my shoulder once before stepping back, slow and careful.
I give him a small nod because no words can heal what is still wounded. Maybe time. Maybe space. I don't know, yet.
I turn and grab my purse.
“I need to go.” I say.
Mom holds herself, leaning on the wall by the door, face crestfallen.
I touch my cheek, which is raised with welts. The skin is hot to the touch, but the real pain is that it happened.
My mother hit me.
I step closer, facing her on my own.
Unlike my father, there is something about what she did that feels more damning. She lied and manipulated, too, but she… she feels like the leader of it all. The quiet one was the worst one. How can that be?
"To hit your own daughter…" I start, but stop myself.
I shouldn't say it. The words are pure — the kind Jesus taught me. But part of me wants to say them so she will hurt as bad as me. The part that was born from the sting of my mother's betrayal, which still burns my face.
I draw in a deep breath.
“I forgive you,” I say sharply.
Three simple words.
Subtly, she lifts her chin, defiant. But I see it. Her chin quivers. Just for a second. It stabbed her.
It's a victory. A bittersweet victory.
This time, I swallow my pride in the same way I did for my father.
“And I hope one day, you forgive yourself for staying with Dad all these years.” Then softer, “And not because you had me.”
Her eyes glass over, but her gaze doesn’t waver.
We stare at each other for a while, letting the silence further divide us.
I don’t look back. Just leave, following my heart to where it yearns to go.