Page 58 of Slap Shot Daddies

That’s exactly why I got a hotel.

I force a small, strained smile and shift my purse higher on my shoulder, the leather strap digging slightly into my skin. “I just wanted to keep things simple.”

Before they can press the issue further, a wave of familiar voices rises around us. Friends of my parents, churchgoers I’ve known since childhood, all with warm smiles and open arms, welcoming me back.

My stomach knots painfully.

I shake hands, exchanging polite greetings, nodding along to comments about how much I’ve “grown” and how they “haven’t seen me in ages”. Each interaction feels like a small performance, exhausting in its own way, and we haven’t even gone inside yet.

I catch sight of the church doors, the heavy oak entrance looming ahead, the same doors I used to walk through every Sunday like clockwork.

The urge to turn around, to run back to the safety of my car, is almost overwhelming, but I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and follow my parents inside.

This was a bad idea.

As soon as I step into the church, it feels as though I’ve been whisked back in time. Nothing has changed. The same wooden pews line the sanctuary, each polished to a high gleam yet still emitting familiar creaks under the weight of the gathering congregation.

Tall, flickering candles near the altar cast a warm glow, their waxy scent thick and sweet in the air. The stained-glasswindows, vibrant and colorful, scatter patches of light across the floor, depicting saints and angels frozen in time.

Even the pastor remains unchanged. I watch him with a tightening in my stomach as he slowly shuffles toward the pulpit. His frail body is hunched over, his voice a raspy whisper as he greets the congregation, looking every bit like he’s at death’s door.

I shouldn’t be this irritated. It’s not his fault I don’t want to be here.

I exhale deeply, trying to push away my swirling thoughts as I slip into the pew beside my parents. My mother glances at me with a knowing look, likely sensing my internal struggle, but she remains silent as the service begins.

I make an effort to concentrate. I truly do. But everything is overwhelming. The air is overly warm, saturated with the musty scent of old hymnals and the faint musk of aging wood.

There’s a distant murmur of someone coughing, and the way sunlight slants through the stained glass makes everything feel surreal and dreamlike.

I cross my legs, willing myself to sit still.

I just need to endure this.

Then, it’s on to the potluck.

Then, I can go back home, to Minneapolis.

The sermon washes over me, a distant murmur that barely registers in my mind. It's not that I lack belief entirely.

I do believe, just not in this rigid, stifling form of faith.

I don’t believe in a God who wields judgment like a weapon, demanding blind obedience rather than fostering love and understanding. This version of Christianity that loudly preaches acceptance but whispers condemnation behind closed doors isn’t for me.

I believe in kindness, in allowing people to make their own choices and live in a way that brings them happiness without causing harm to others.

Most importantly, I believe in truly refraining from judgment, not just claiming not to judge while secretly looking down on others.

My gaze sweeps across the congregation, taking in the sea of bowed heads and tightly clasped hands.

Once, this was my world. Now? It feels like a foreign land I struggle to comprehend.

The pastor's voice drones on, a monotonous hum that fails to penetrate my consciousness.

Instead, my thoughts drift back to Minneapolis. To Reggie, with his lilting Scottish brogue that dances in my ears.

To Braden, whose open-hearted charm lights up every room. To Ambrose, whose deep, quiet intensity twists my stomach.

I feel my phone vibrating with messages, and one small look has me turning the phone on mute.

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