Page 5 of The Perfect Bargain

Elena

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a year since my last confession.” My voice is steady, but inside, I’m anything but. My hands tremble in my lap, betraying the nerves I’m trying to suppress. This isn’t just a ritual—it’s survival. The guilt gnaws at me day and night, threatening to swallow me whole. I can’t let it. I have to be strong—for her. For my daughter.

How can I look her in the eye, knowing the lengths I’ve gone to? Knowing the choices I’ve made, the lines I’ve crossed just to keep our world intact? The thought of her seeing anything but pride when she looks at me… it’s unbearable. She’s my everything, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her. Whatever it takes to keep that light in her eyes.

“Are you still with me, dear?” The priest’s voice pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts, grounding me. For a second, I forgot where I was. Forgot I’m here to lay bare my darkest truths.

Can God really forgive the sins of a mother driven to the brink for her child? Can He look past the things I’ve done, the things I might still do?

“I came seeking absolution, Father,” I begin, my voice tight with the weight of what I’m about to say. “But the truth is, I’m not sure I can voice my transgressions.”

The priest’s voice is calm, steady, quoting scripture like a lifeline: “John 1:9, ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.’” His words should comfort me, but I hesitate. “Repent, my child,” he urges.

I take a breath. Start with the part that haunts me the least.

“I left my husband,” I say. The words come out stronger than I expect, more like a declaration than a confession. Leaving a man who only brought fear and pain into our lives isn’t something I regret. It’s not something I’ll ever ask forgiveness for.

“And why did you leave?” The priest’s voice is low, probing, but not judgmental. He’s asking for the truth, the whole truth, and suddenly it feels like too much.

I brace myself, letting the words come from a place of raw honesty. “My husband was abusive,” I admit, each word heavy with memories I try to bury. “I stayed, thinking I could shield our daughter from the worst of it. But then… I realized. I realized he might hurt her.” Saying it aloud, I feel the full weight of it, the terror that drove me.

For the first time, I’m admitting it. Not just to myself, but to the world—through this tiny, sacred confessional—the nightmare I lived through. The fierce protectiveness that took hold when I knew I couldn’t stay any longer.

“Do you regret leaving?” He asks.

“No!” The word explodes from me, fierce and immediate. Just the thought of him laying a hand on her, my sweet girl, is enough to set my blood on fire. I would walk through hell before I let anyone, especially him, hurt her.

“You acted in the best interest of you and your child,” the priest says, a note of understanding softening his tone.

I nod, even though he can’t see me. It’s not something I’ve ever questioned. But that doesn’t erase the other things. The things I’ve done since. The things I might still have to do to keep us safe.

“That’s not why I’m here, Father.” My voice is barely a whisper, heavy with unspoken truths. What I need forgiveness for runs deeper. Darker.

“And what do you seek absolution for?” His question sends a shiver through me. That deep, resonant voice makes it harder to gather the courage to confess the real sin that’s been rotting inside me.

I swallow hard. “Father, fleeing in the dead of night, leaving everything behind… it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” My voice wavers as I remember those first few days, huddled in train stations, trying to shield my daughter from the worst of it. It tore me apart. I pause, the memories pressing down on me.

“Did you seek help from shelters?” His gentle voice breaks the silence, and for a moment, I’m grateful for it. For the semblance of normalcy in this confession.

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I tried. Shelters, government aid, all of it. But it’s a nightmare to navigate, especially when you can’t afford to stop working, even for a day. And then she got sick, and I couldn’t—”

My voice falters, the memories slamming into me with full force. Hunger. Exhaustion. Fear.

“I was desperate, Father. I did what I thought I had to do.” The words fall out like stones, heavy and unforgiving. They hang in the air between us.

He responds with a softness that feels like a lifeline. “God sees the sacrifices you’ve made for your child. None of it is in vain.”

But he doesn’t know. Not yet.

I take a breath, the confession burning in my throat. “Father, I chose a path of sin. I sold myself in the most desperate of ways.” My voice is tight, caught between defiance and despair.

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is gentle. “What weighs on your conscience, my child?”

I close my eyes, forcing the words out. “I sold the one thing men of power seem to crave.” The silence after my admission is deafening, my heart pounding in the stillness. I wonder if even a priest can pass judgment, if he’s silently condemning me for the choice I made.

“You sold your body?” His question is soft, almost a whisper, like he’s trying to shield my confession from even God’s ears.

“They offered me security. Safety for my daughter. Now we have a home, she goes to a good school, and we’re far away from the man who haunted us.” I say it like a statement of fact, but the weight of it crushes me just the same.

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