My father stood in front of us like he was about to preach one of his regular Sunday sermons. He had a Bible in his hand, that worn leather-bound book that had been his constant companion for as long as I could remember.
“Kids,” he said, his voice taking on that particular tone he used when he was about to deliver news he’d already decided was for our own good, “God is calling me elsewhere.”
Liam, who was only ten at the time and still naive enough to believe in the fundamental goodness of grown-ups, frowned in confusion. “Like another church?”
My father gave him a soft, rehearsed smile—the kind of smile that made me understand, even then, that he’d already decided what this conversation would be and he was simply performing his part in it.
“Something like that,” he said.
He talked about “a new season” and “obedience to God’s calling” and “faith that he was making the right choice.” He never said, “I’m leaving your mother.” He never mentioned the twenty-two-year-old soprano from the church choir who’d started appearing in the pulpit with increasing frequency. He never mentioned the suitcase that was already packed and waiting in his car’s trunk.
That night, I sat outside my parents’ bedroom door and listened to my mother cry—not quiet tears, but the deep, broken sobs of someone whose entire world had just collapsed. I could hear my father’s voice, calm and rational, explaining why this was actually reasonable.
“I deserve to be happy,” he said. “I’ve given twenty-five years to this family. I’ve been a good husband and a good father. But God doesn’t want me to live a miserable life. God wants me to be fulfilled.”
“You’re their father,” my mother choked out. “We have nine children, and we’re about to have a tenth. How can you just leave?”
“You’re strong,” he told her, and I could hear the certainty in his voice, as if strength was something you could just summon when your world was falling apart. “God will provide.”
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