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Mama was waiting by the door, her face adorned with a gentle smile as she watched us approach.
She wore a long, velvet black dress with sleeves that reached all the way down to her wrists. She had on her pearl necklace that Papa had given her on their anniversary and her shiny black heels that clicked on the stone floor.
Papa wore his black suit, the one he said was for special occasions, with a crisp white shirt underneath.
Mama reached out to straighten my dress, ensuring everything was just right.
Papa stood beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder, his face glowing with pride as he looked down at me.
With Mama’s hand in mine and Papa by my side, we walked out the door and into the crisp September morning.
The church bells rang softly in the distance, signaling the start of the service.
Together, we made our way to the car, Papa holding the door open for Mama and me.
As we drove to the church, the streets were quiet and bathed in the golden light of early morning.
We parked near the church and Papa helped us out of the car.
I held his hand as we walked up the steps.
Inside, the church was quiet and smelled like candles.
We walked to the front row and sat down.
Father Pasha started talking, and I tried to listen, but I kept thinking about playing dress-up later.
Sometimes Papa would squeeze my shoulder to help me pay attention.
Father Pasha started his sermon. “Today, we remember Judas, who betrayed Jesus with a kiss,” he began, his voice deep and serious. “Judas was one of Jesus’s twelve disciples, trusted by Him. He was like his brother. But for thirty pieces of silver, Judas agreed to betray Jesus.”
I watched Father Pasha, trying to understand.
He continued, “in the Garden of Gethsemane, Judas led soldiers to Jesus and kissed Him on the cheek, a sign of betrayal. Imagine the pain Jesus felt, knowing one of His closest friends had turned against Him.”
My attention was drawn to Papa’s hand, where I traced circles on the tattoo of a raven.
I had always admired that tattoo and often told myself that when I got older, I’d get one just like it.
My fingers continued to follow the lines of Papa’s tattoo, but soon I grew bored.
The words of Father Pasha’s sermon began to blur together, and my eyelids grew heavy.
I leaned my head against Papa’s arm, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
His warmth was comforting, and before I knew it, I drifted off to sleep.
After what felt like hours, I woke up with my head pressed against the cool window of the car.
Looking around, I realized we were back in the car, parked in the familiar silence of our driveway.
I had fallen asleep in the church, but now we were home.
Blinking away the sleep, I realized my parents were arguing in whispers.
Papa’s voice was low and angry.
“I don’t want you to ever say her fucking name ever again,” he said.
