her warm hand instead of the cold beads.
“Do you really
want to listen?” she asked. “Do you really want to know what made me leave the
meeting?”
“More than
anything.”
She hesitated
until the sigh wove over her. “Then you have to know. First and foremost, my
mother isn’t a bad person.”
She spoke it like
a confession. No—she whispered as if she didn’t believe it herself.
She looked away. It
might’ve made it easier to minister to her then, but it didn’t ease my
breathing…or my conscience.
She smelled of
candied apples, and her teeth nibbled on a plumb bottom lip. I wondered if she
ached for the sting of a bite or the soft caress of a kiss.
I forced myself to
speak. “I understand.”
“Even when she was
sick—” Her gaze slipped to mine for the briefest of moments. “That’s what my
Dad called it, when she wasn’t sober. Sick .”
“It’s true.”
“The pain killers
and the alcohol made her a bad person.” She frowned. “No. It made her a reckless person.”
“Addiction is a serious
illness…” I edged closer, shielding her from grief and yet savoring her warmth,
her scent, her beauty . “Addiction affects more people than the one
suffering from it.”
Didn’t I know it?
Couldn’t I feel
it?
Every second I strained at her side. I prayed in silence and sang with the melody of her voice. My gaze
should have remained on the monstrance, the foundation of our church. Instead I
imagined the softness of her legs, her arms, that hand so near to mine.
Addiction.
Temptation. Sin. It was real.
And my desire
trapped Honor in the middle of my battles. Man against faith. Reason against
passion. Need against vows.
“My mom’s been
sober for a year now.” Honor opened more and more. “And I hate to say it, but
it’s…strange. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t popping pills or
drinking. My mother is gone. Now she’s this…entirely different person. Someone new .”
“It’s a good
thing,” I said.
“I know. She’s
trying so hard to stay on the right path.”
“And you are good
to help her.”
She leaned against
the pew, her hands slipping, inching towards mine. “I’m not that good. I don’t
know how to help her. I left my college and lost my credits, but we don’t have
the money for a full-time tuition. I’ll be a part-time student for my senior year
while I find a better paying side job because…well, Mom can’t really start a
career. She…doesn’t have the right set of skills or references.”
She meant no one
would hire a woman with such a tragic, complicated history. “The church is
helping her.”
Honor didn’t want
to hear it. “No. I’ll do everything in my power to ensure we don’t need the
charity. I don’t mind working extra jobs.”
“Honor, the
programs exist to help women in her position.”
“I know. We won’t
need them.”
I frowned. “But you’re
studying to do social work. You, above all, should understand how much these
programs could help.”
“I do, Father. Believe
me. But we won’t accept it.”
“Why?”
“I can take care
of my mother. The charities should save their resources for others.”
It wasn’t a
completely honest answer, but I didn’t press any further. She shifted. Her
fingers accidentally grazed mine.
She stilled. So
did I.
“I don’t know what
I’m doing here,” she whispered.
“You’re home.
You’re helping your mother. You’re serving your community.”
“Father—”
“You are doing
what’s right . Honor thy mother—it’s so important you were named for it.”
“It’s hard to
honor someone who hadn’t honored themselves for sixteen years.” Her voice
dropped, and my heart stilled with it. She edged closer.
This wasn’t a
moment of truth, but a feat of strength.
Was it wrong to
take her hand? To hold it? To feel her warmth surge through me?
Honor needed that
comfort. In any other case, with any other person, I’d have given all of me to
ease the burdens of
“Do you really
want to listen?” she asked. “Do you really want to know what made me leave the
meeting?”
“More than
anything.”
She hesitated
until the sigh wove over her. “Then you have to know. First and foremost, my
mother isn’t a bad person.”
She spoke it like
a confession. No—she whispered as if she didn’t believe it herself.
She looked away. It
might’ve made it easier to minister to her then, but it didn’t ease my
breathing…or my conscience.
She smelled of
candied apples, and her teeth nibbled on a plumb bottom lip. I wondered if she
ached for the sting of a bite or the soft caress of a kiss.
I forced myself to
speak. “I understand.”
“Even when she was
sick—” Her gaze slipped to mine for the briefest of moments. “That’s what my
Dad called it, when she wasn’t sober. Sick .”
“It’s true.”
“The pain killers
and the alcohol made her a bad person.” She frowned. “No. It made her a reckless person.”
“Addiction is a serious
illness…” I edged closer, shielding her from grief and yet savoring her warmth,
her scent, her beauty . “Addiction affects more people than the one
suffering from it.”
Didn’t I know it?
Couldn’t I feel
it?
Every second I strained at her side. I prayed in silence and sang with the melody of her voice. My gaze
should have remained on the monstrance, the foundation of our church. Instead I
imagined the softness of her legs, her arms, that hand so near to mine.
Addiction.
Temptation. Sin. It was real.
And my desire
trapped Honor in the middle of my battles. Man against faith. Reason against
passion. Need against vows.
“My mom’s been
sober for a year now.” Honor opened more and more. “And I hate to say it, but
it’s…strange. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t popping pills or
drinking. My mother is gone. Now she’s this…entirely different person. Someone new .”
“It’s a good
thing,” I said.
“I know. She’s
trying so hard to stay on the right path.”
“And you are good
to help her.”
She leaned against
the pew, her hands slipping, inching towards mine. “I’m not that good. I don’t
know how to help her. I left my college and lost my credits, but we don’t have
the money for a full-time tuition. I’ll be a part-time student for my senior year
while I find a better paying side job because…well, Mom can’t really start a
career. She…doesn’t have the right set of skills or references.”
She meant no one
would hire a woman with such a tragic, complicated history. “The church is
helping her.”
Honor didn’t want
to hear it. “No. I’ll do everything in my power to ensure we don’t need the
charity. I don’t mind working extra jobs.”
“Honor, the
programs exist to help women in her position.”
“I know. We won’t
need them.”
I frowned. “But you’re
studying to do social work. You, above all, should understand how much these
programs could help.”
“I do, Father. Believe
me. But we won’t accept it.”
“Why?”
“I can take care
of my mother. The charities should save their resources for others.”
It wasn’t a
completely honest answer, but I didn’t press any further. She shifted. Her
fingers accidentally grazed mine.
She stilled. So
did I.
“I don’t know what
I’m doing here,” she whispered.
“You’re home.
You’re helping your mother. You’re serving your community.”
“Father—”
“You are doing
what’s right . Honor thy mother—it’s so important you were named for it.”
“It’s hard to
honor someone who hadn’t honored themselves for sixteen years.” Her voice
dropped, and my heart stilled with it. She edged closer.
This wasn’t a
moment of truth, but a feat of strength.
Was it wrong to
take her hand? To hold it? To feel her warmth surge through me?
Honor needed that
comfort. In any other case, with any other person, I’d have given all of me to
ease the burdens of
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