A Family Torn By Secret And Love.

Morning light filtered through the lace curtains, drawing soft shadows across the room. Marcy stood at the mirror, smoothing her navy dress. The fabric felt cool, grounding. Lavender still clung to her skin from her bath—a small comfort. Her fingers shook as she pinned her hat. The woman staring back looked composed, but barely. A crack waiting for pressure. “Faith!” she called, sharp. The name echoed, unanswered. Marcy’s mouth tightened. Footsteps, finally. Faith appeared in the doorway, schoolbag slung over one shoulder, eyes cautious. “You’re coming to church,” Marcy said without looking at her. “It’s been months.” Faith’s grip tightened on her strap. “I told you. I’ve got a project with Natacha. If we don’t finish, we’ll fail.” Marcy turned. “Don’t lie. I know what that means.” The slap came before she thought. A sharp sound in the quiet room. Faith’s head snapped to the side, her cheek flushing red. Her bag hit the floor. She didn’t cry. Just stared at her mother, stunned. “You don’t trust me,” she said, voice low. “You never do.” The floor creaked behind them. Lincoln stood in the doorway, boots dusty, face drawn. “What happened?” he asked, already tired. Marcy turned, Bible clutched under one arm. “She’s lying. About school. About where she’s going.” Lincoln looked at Faith. “Is that true?” “She won’t come to church,” Marcy snapped. “I’m trying to raise her right.” “You hit her for that?” His voice was quiet, hard to read. “She’s my daughter.” He sighed, rubbed his jaw. “If she wants to screw up, let her. She’ll learn.” Marcy stared at him, wounded. Then turned and walked out. The front door slammed behind her like a closing book. Faith sank to the floor, arms around herself. “I’m leaving,” she whispered. “And I’m not coming back.” Lincoln stood there a moment. “Keep talking like that,” he said, “and you’ll just make it worse.” But he didn’t sound angry. Just tired. He walked away, leaving her alone in the silence. --- The afternoon sun hung low, casting a golden haze over the cracked sidewalk as Faith hurried along, her schoolbag bouncing against her hip. Her cheek still throbbed where her mother had struck her, and her eyes stung, though the tears had dried. She clutched her books tighter, their corners digging into her palms—something solid to hold onto. Natacha’s house was just a few blocks away, but every step felt like defiance. Like escape. A shadow fell across her path. She looked up. A young man leaned against a lamppost, hands in the pockets of a worn jacket. His hair was messy, his eyes sharp but kind. They caught hers, held them. “Hey,” he said, easy and warm. “You alright?” Faith forced a smile. “I’m fine.” Her voice was flat. She looked past him. He didn’t move, just studied her with quiet curiosity. “You don’t look fine.” She tightened her jaw. “I said I’m well.” She adjusted her bag and stepped past him. He chuckled and fell in beside her. “Don’t worry—I’m not trying to fix anything. But you... you look like someone trying not to fall apart.” She stopped. “Do I know you?” “Nope,” he said, grinning. “Name’s Henry.” Faith narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?” “Nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Just saw someone who looked like they needed to be seen.” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t tell him to leave either. He walked beside her, his steps unhurried. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was strange, but oddly steadying. Like he was a buffer between her and the storm still rumbling behind her. --- Across town, Marcy sat stiffly in Unique’s parlor, the air thick with the scent of old roses and black tea. The room was cluttered—china dolls, faded photos, a well-worn Bible on the side table. Marcy’s hands twisted in her lap, fingers worrying the edge of her scarf. “I know she’s seeing someone,” she said, voice low. “Faith won’t listen anymore. She’s slipping away.” Unique, silver hair tucked in a neat bun, leaned back in her chair. Her face was calm, but her eyes were sharp. “She’s not a little girl, Marcy. She’s nineteen.” Marcy’s mouth pulled tight. “She’ll always be mine. Just yesterday she wanted me to braid her hair. Now she lies to my face.” Unique sipped her tea, unshaken. “You can’t hold her forever.” “I have to.” Marcy’s voice cracked. “I can’t lose her too.” The words hung between them, thick with meaning. David’s name didn’t need to be spoken—his shadow filled the room. His laughter. His smoke. His silence. “She’ll end up like him,” Marcy said finally. “And I can’t let that happen. I pray. I’ve tried. Lincoln turned his back on Faith years ago—now he acts like she’s not even his. It’s all on me.” Unique set her cup down with a quiet clink. “Marcy. I’ve raised girls too. If you squeeze too hard, they slip right through you. Let her breathe. Or you’ll lose her.” Marcy stared down at her hands. They trembled. She thought of Faith’s face that morning—the hurt, the defiance. The way she’d whispered, I’m leaving. For a moment, doubt flickered. But she buried it deep. “She needs God,” Marcy said, more to herself than anyone. “She just doesn’t know it yet.” ----- The late afternoon sun dipped low, painting the street in soft oranges and pinks as Faith walked beside Henry, her schoolbag swinging at her side. His hand brushed hers—a fleeting touch that sparked something warm and disarming. Before she could pull away, his fingers closed around hers. She let him. A smile crept onto her face before she could stop it. She glanced at him—his easy grin caught the golden light—and for a moment, the weight of the morning lifted. They reached Natacha’s house, a modest two-story with peeling paint and a sagging gate. Henry let go of her hand, and the cool absence of it made her fingers curl. “This is me,” Faith said, her voice softer than she meant it to be. She gave a small wave. “Hey,” Henry said, low and teasing. “You got a phone?” Faith raised an eyebrow. “Who's asking? Some stranger I just met?” He laughed, warm and rumbling. “Henry—the bothersome one. Come on, let me have it.” She hesitated, then scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. A flicker of doubt rose—too fast—but his smile quieted it. “I’ll call you,” he said, tucking it into his jacket. “Promise.” With a wave, he turned and disappeared down the street, his silhouette fading into dusk. --- Inside, Natacha sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by textbooks and crumpled notes, her braids tumbling over her shoulders. She glanced up as Faith dropped her bag. “Who was that?” she asked, propping herself on one elbow. “Looked cozy. First time meeting him?” Faith’s cheeks warmed as she sat beside her. “Yeah. His name’s Henry. He just… started talking to me.” Natacha grinned. “And already holding hands? Girl, did he ask you to be his—” “No!” Faith cut in, laughing, though her voice softened. “Not yet. But… he’s kind of cute.” Natacha clicked her tongue. “You gave him your number already? Faith, come on. That’s too easy. Guys like a chase. He might think you’re just… there.” Faith’s smile faded. “I thought about that,” she said quietly, eyes drifting to the window. “But saying no felt like pretending. I don’t know how to play those games.” Natacha’s grin softened. She nudged Faith’s shoulder. “Alright, alright. No harm done. Let’s just not fail math, yeah?” Faith nodded, pulling a textbook toward her. “This formula for the first one?” --- That evening, the air was thick with the scent of coming rain as David slunk toward the house, his shadow long under the street lamp. Through the window, he saw Lincoln hunched over the paper, lamplight casting hard lines across his face. Marcy sat across from him, Bible open in her lap, her lips moving in silent prayer. David pulled out his phone: Meet me outside. Now. Faith slipped out the back door, her sneakers quiet on the patio. David stood by the gate, hands in his pockets, posture tight. A bruise bloomed along his jaw. “David,” she whispered. “I don’t want trouble with Dad. What do you need?” He shifted. “Just… can you lend me some money? I’ll pay you back.” “How much?” “Five thousand.” “For what?” He opened his hands. A deep cut split his palm, dried blood caked in the grooves. Faith’s breath hitched. “What happened?” “Nothing,” he muttered. “Got in a fight. I’m fine.” Faith clenched her fists. “Why are you always getting into this?” He kicked at a loose stone. “Some girl. Her boyfriend was hitting her. I couldn’t just stand there.” Faith’s eyes softened. “Is she your girlfriend?” “No,” he snapped, then quieter, “I just… I couldn’t let him make her feel small.” His voice cracked. And there he was—the brother who once braided her hair and swore he’d protect her. “You can’t keep doing this,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You’ll get yourself killed.” He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the ground, the weight of it all settling between them like the coming storm.