The Bench Beneath Colored Glass
I was four years old when my mother led me into a quiet church and sat me down on a polished wooden pew. Sunlight streamed through tall stained-glass windows, scattering soft colors across the floor. She adjusted the collar of my small gray coat, her movements calm, almost routine, as if this were any ordinary morning.
Then she leaned close and whispered, “Stay right here, sweetheart. God will take care of you.”
Before I could respond, she stood up, took my father’s hand, and together with my older brother, they walked down the aisle. Just like that. No hesitation. No explanation.
I remember my feet swinging above the floor, too confused to cry, too young to understand that my life had just been split into a before and after.
The scent of candle wax lingered in the air. Faint voices echoed from somewhere distant. My mother glanced back once, offering a small, peaceful smile that made no sense then—and even less now. It was the look of someone who had already decided I no longer belonged to her.
The doors opened. A rush of cold air slipped inside.
And they were gone.
