Cayland
Inside a cathedral near Cayland, with its high vaulted ceilings and streams of sunlight piercing through stained glass windows, I sit, the hard wood of the pew pressing against my back. To an observer, the serenity on my face might suggest deep devotion or tranquility. But beneath that calm exterior, an ocean of emotions roils, each wave crashing harder than the last.
My life has spiraled in the past few weeks, and now the guilt of it all feels like a crushing weight. I’ve lost my grip on everything, and I lack the strength to stop the chaos.
My marriage is barely hanging on. Just earlier, my grandmother dropped a bombshell on me. ‘Malcolm Klein is planning to take his daughter away,’ she said, driving me deeper into a pit of despair.
It feels like a storm threatening to uproot my very existence.
The scent of burning candles, usually a comforting aroma, seems too sharp today, exacerbating the rawness inside me. I close my eyes, searching for answers, or maybe just solace.
As I rise to leave, the familiar rustle of robes causes me to pause. Father Martin approaches, his kind face reflecting both wisdom and warmth.
‘Duke,’ he greets with a soft smile. ‘I had hoped to speak with you after the service. Seems I missed my chance.’
I manage a half-smile. ‘I left early, Father. Had a lot on my mind.’
His gaze, astute and understanding, searches mine. ‘I noticed. I’ve known you long enough to see when something troubles you deeply.’
Is it that evident?
He gestures toward an adjacent pew. ‘Join me? Maybe it’ll help to talk.’
We sit side by side in that quiet, sacred space. I grapple for words, trying to articulate this overwhelming turbulence inside. Father Martin doesn’t press, allowing the silence to stretch.
Finally, words start tumbling out, not in a coherent story but fragmented pieces of my recent struggles.
He listens intently, his presence a comforting balm.
When I finish, there’s a quiet understanding between us. He doesn’t offer immediate solutions or advice. Instead, he gives me something more valuable: validation, empathy, and the promise that through it all, I’m not alone.
It’s not a miraculous cure for the storm inside.
Driving home from the church, a heavy cloud of despair hanging over me. The talk with the priest had been fulfilling and I am thankful that we talked. My car’s Bluetooth system suddenly announces an incoming call. It’s Tristan.
‘Tristan,’ I note, accepting the call via the car’s Bluetooth system.
‘Duke, man! I’ve been trying to reach you. Thought you got swallowed up by a black hole or something,’ Tristan’s voice comes through, light-hearted and teasing.
‘Just took a breather at the church,’ I reply.
‘Church? You? Has Aisling been grooming you for priesthood now?’ He chuckles, clearly amused by his own joke.
Rolling my eyes, I respond, ‘Very funny. Anything urgent?’
‘Actually, yes. I was thinking of hitting the country club tomorrow. A few buddies are gathering for the game. Thought you might want a distraction.’
The idea isn’t half bad. ‘Sounds good. Count me in.’
‘Great! Oh, and Brie mentioned she might swing by. That cool with you?’
A silent tension coils in my chest. Why bring up Brie now? ‘Is there a reason you’re asking?’
‘Just being a good friend. Besides, you’re about to experience some…freedom, right? Time to have some fun.’
His tone shifts, the insinuation clear. I grip the steering wheel tighter, feeling the cold leather under my palms. ‘Tristan, this isn’t a game. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t treat it like one.’
Before Tristan can respond, another call notification buzzes, displaying Jordan’s name. Perfect timing.
‘Hey, that’s Jordan. Gotta go.’
Before Tristan can say another word, I switch calls. ‘Jordan?’
The storm inside intensifies, the horizon of my emotions clouded. But for now, Tristan’s words, their implications, and the challenge ahead are all set aside, ready to be confronted another day.
