I was 15, sitting on a metal chair that pinched my legs. My little brothers and sisters fidgeted, swinging their feet, sipping watery church coffee they weren’t supposed to have. Dad stood in front of us, Bible in hand, like he was about to preach.
Mom sat off to the side, belly huge, ankles swollen, eyes swollen worse.
She stared at the floor, a tissue crushed in her fist. Dad cleared his throat.
“Kids,” he said, “God is calling me elsewhere.”
Liam, 10 years old and still trusting, frowned. “Like another church?”
Dad gave him a soft, rehearsed smile.
“Something like that.”
He talked about “a new season” and “obedience” and “faith.” He never said, “I’m leaving your mother.” He never mentioned the twenty-two-year-old soprano. He never mentioned the suitcase already in his trunk.
That night, I sat outside my parents’ bedroom and listened. Mom was crying so hard she could barely speak.
“We have nine children. I’m due in four weeks.”
“I deserve to be happy,” he said. “I’ve given twenty-five years to this family.
God doesn’t want me miserable.”
“You’re their father,” she choked out.
“You’re strong,” he told her. “God will provide.”
Then he walked out with one suitcase and a Bible verse.
