Page 8 of On Your Knees

“Mommy,” my son’s faint voice says into the phone.

I nearly shed a million tears at the sound of his cough. “Hey baby. Are you not feeling well?”

“I have a cough.” He coughs more into the phone. “I miss you. Can you come over?”

My heart breaks. “I miss you too.” I sigh.

“You can’t come over,” Christopher snaps into the phone. I hear a door shut in the background, and I’m pretty sure he’s walked out of my son’s room so he can’t hear this conversation.

“I want to see him, Chris. You can’t keep me from him.”

“I’m not trying to keep you from him.” He breathes into the phone like this whole conversation is annoying him somehow.

“I could say you’re violating a court order.”

He laughs all cocky and shit and it pisses me off. “Well, technically this ismyweekend. Your weekend was last week.”

“But you took him to Disney onmyweekend.”

“Which you agreed to, Eva.” He huffs into the phone. “Look, you can get him next weekend. He needs rest, and Jessica can care for him.”

I know I’ve already lost. “Fine.” What more can I do? I hang up on Christopher, no longer wanting to hear anything he has to say.

I turn my car around, my heart heavy with the weight of disappointment, and head back home. Defeated. Alone. Miserable. The excitement I’d built up all week for my weekend with Nate now feels like ashes. The highway stretches before me in a blur, the passing headlights doing nothing to lift the sense of emptiness settling in my chest. I wipe at my tears, but they keep coming, hot and unrelenting.

As I near my neighborhood, something catches my eye—the soft, golden glow of the church’s lights, spilling out onto the street. It’s just past dusk, and the stained glass windows shimmer in the fading light, casting delicate, colorful patterns on the ground. Without thinking, I turn into the parking lot and pull up beside the Family Center, a smaller building adjacent to the main chapel. The parking lot is mostly empty, save for a few scattered cars. I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, staring at the light spilling out from the sanctuary.

I have no family.

The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. Nate is with Christopher. My parents live hours away. And Jessica—Jessica has wormed her way into the part of my life that used to feel secure. This is perfect, I think bitterly. They’re probably all inside, singing some happy family tune, gathered in pews, warm and connected, while I sit here, completely alone. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I wrestle with the urge to drive off, but something keeps me here.

I take a deep breath and wipe at my face again, determined to stop feeling sorry for myself. I won’t let this moment swallow me whole. I lock up my car and step out into the cool evening air, the faint smell of burning wood from a nearby chimney lingering in the breeze. The towering spire of the church looms above me, a silent guardian against the night sky.

But instead of driving away, I find myself walking toward the church’s front door, hoping for a little peace.

I enter the Family Center, the soft click of the door behind me echoing in the quiet hallway. The building smells faintly of cleaning products and coffee, with the hum of fluorescent lights above adding to the stillness. Glancing around, I see no one—just empty chairs stacked against the walls and a few flyers taped to a bulletin board advertising upcoming bake sales and youth events. The loneliness that had been gnawing at me earlier now feels even heavier in the silence.

I walk toward the lighted banquet-style room in the center of the building, the soft glow drawing me in like a beacon. My footsteps echo on the polished floor as I approach, and I hesitate briefly before pushing open the heavy wooden doors. Inside, the room is unexpectedly warm and welcoming, with soft yellow light pouring from the overhead fixtures. The space is lined with long, folding tables, the kind used for potlucks and church socials, but only one table stands in the center, covered in brown paper bags and canned foods.

Behind the table, Father Carmichael stands, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned forearms. He’s sorting through a pile of groceries, his hands moving with a calm efficiency, but he looks up as I enter.

“Well, hello there,” he says, his voice smooth and deep, with an unexpected warmth that settles over me like a blanket. There’s something magnetic in the way he speaks, a quiet confidence that makes my heart stumble.

For a second, I’m caught off guard. My brain latches onto the richness of his voice, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt in ages. Raw, sexual appeal. Or maybeit’s been so long since I’ve had sex that I’m misinterpreting everything—mistaking his voice for something out of a fantasy where he’s the star and I’m… well, not sitting alone in a church.

I blink, trying to clear my head as I remind myself who I’m talking to. This is Father Carmichael. The priest. Not some character from a steamy novel. But still, his smile lingers a little too long, and my cheeks flush, heat creeping up my neck.

Oh shit.

"Oh, hi. I didn’t mean to intrude," I say quickly, the urge to slink back to the safety of my car overwhelming. My hands fidget with the strap of my purse, and I avoid meeting his eyes, hoping I can make a graceful exit before the awkwardness sets in.

“Don’t go,” Father Carmichael says, his voice gentle but firm, as if sensing my need to retreat. There’s a kindness in his tone, and regardless of my discomfort, it’s hard to ignore. “Can you help me box up the rest of these things?”

I hesitate, glancing at the table overflowing with groceries—fresh vegetables, canned goods, boxes of pasta, all neatly organized. My fingers twitch, and I nod, forcing a smile. "Okay. Sure."

As I step closer, the smell of warm bread and something sweet fills the air. My stomach clenches with hunger, and I can't help but eye the items on the table—fresh produce, bread, and jars of jam—things I could desperately use. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to push the thought away, but it lingers. The grocery bills are piling up at home, and I know how empty my fridge is right now.

As if Benedict—Father Carmichael—can read my thoughts, he glances at me with those sharp, observant eyes. “Did you wantto take any of these things with you?” he asks, his voice soft, but there’s no judgment there, just a genuine offer.

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