The air in Maplewood Church that Sunday felt heavier than usual.
Maybe it was the weather—thick clouds pressing down, dimming the morning light.
Or maybe, Daniel thought, it was the weight of what he carried inside him.
He sat beside Rebecca in the second pew, hands clasped too tightly to be prayer. Her face was pale, unreadable, her eyes fixed on the altar as if afraid to look anywhere else.
Pastor Gregory's voice echoed through the hall, slow and deliberate.
"Confession," he said, "is not a sign of weakness. It is the first breath of freedom after drowning."
Daniel flinched.
Each word landed like a hammer on the locked door of his heart.
He could feel Rebecca trembling beside him, her breath quick and shallow. They hadn't spoken much since the pastor's visit—only exchanged quiet words that meant nothing and silences that meant everything.
As the sermon went on, Daniel's mind drifted. He remembered the night they made their decision—the darkness, the trembling hands, the whispered prayers they didn't mean. He remembered the baby's first cry that he never got to hear.
And worst of all, he remembered the look in Rebecca's eyes the moment they handed everything over to the nurse—the look of a mother being torn in half.
Now, as the pastor's voice filled the church, Daniel's throat burned.
He wanted to stand, to scream, to tell them all that he was a hypocrite. That the God they praised every Sunday was not blind to what he had done.
But fear pinned him to the pew.
Fear of judgment.
Fear of losing even the fragile shell of peace they'd built.
He bowed his head, pretending to pray, but the words that came were nothing like prayer.
"Forgive me, Lord. But not yet. Not now. I'm not ready."
---
After the service, people filed out of the church in soft murmurs and polite smiles. Pastor Gregory stood by the door, blessing each one as they passed. When Daniel and Rebecca approached, the old man's eyes lingered on them again—steady, searching, merciful.
"God's house is always open, my children," he said. "But the door to healing opens only from the inside."
Rebecca lowered her gaze. Daniel forced a nod.
They stepped into the cold air together. The sound of the church bell followed them—deep and slow, like the heartbeat of something ancient and watchful.
Each toll was a reminder.
Of sin.
Of silence.
Of the confession that never came.