𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍

𝑬𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆 3: "𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏"

୨୧
France, Paris
Catholic Church
O.T.M.
──── ୨୧ ────

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m standing in front of my mirror, adjusting the straps of my white sundress. The fabric is soft, flowing down to just above my knees, hugging my curves in a way that makes me feel both innocent and a little dangerous. My hair, sleek and straight, falls down my back, brushing the smooth fabric of the dress. I look good, if I do say so myself. My white Louboutins—the ones my mom bought me for my birthday—give me that extra bit of height and confidence. I admire the glossy red soles for a moment before slipping them on.

"Onika! We’re leaving in five minutes!" my mom calls from downstairs.

I grab my bag and rush down the stairs, feeling the familiar excitement bubble up inside me. Not about church, though. Church has always been a bit of a bore, if I’m being honest. No, the excitement is for something—or someone—else.

We climb into the car, my mom at the wheel. She’s dressed in a flowy peach dress, looking elegant as ever. She glances over at me, giving me one of her soft smiles.

"You look beautiful, baby," she says as she pulls out of the driveway.

"Thanks, Mom," I mumble, trying to focus on anything but the nerves building inside me.

As we drive, my mom starts talking about school, her voice casual but with that motherly concern. "How’s the matric pressure treating you? I know this year is going to be intense."

I shrug, staring out the window. "It’s a lot, but I’m managing."

"Just make sure you’re taking care of yourself," she says, giving me a sideways glance. "Don’t push too hard. You’ve got to pace yourself, you know? Don’t let it all pile up."

"Yeah, I know," I say, though my mind is already elsewhere. She continues talking, but all I can think about is Mrs. Carter. I wonder if she’ll be there today. I wonder what she’ll be wearing, how she’ll look. It’s been a weekend since I last saw her, and I’ve been craving even the smallest glimpse of her.

We arrive at the church, pulling into the parking lot. The building is old, with whitewashed walls and stained-glass windows that cast rainbow-colored light across the floor when the sun hits them just right. My mom and I climb out of the car and head inside, slipping into one of the back rows. She always insists on sitting here, near the entrance, because she says it’s cooler, and she gets hot flashes in the middle of the service.

As soon as we sit down, my mom strikes up a conversation with the woman next to her, a lady she’s been gossiping with for years. I tune out their chatter, scanning the room with bored eyes, taking in the usual congregation. All the same faces, all the same fake smiles. It’s like these people have been going through the same motions for their whole lives. They come to church, sing their songs, say their prayers, and go back to their lives like nothing’s changed.

But then, I hear it. That voice—soft, sincere, with just a touch of warmth. Mrs. Carter’s voice. I turn my head and there she is, greeting an old lady by the entrance, her radiant smile lighting up the entire room.

She’s wearing a sage green satin dress that hugs her body in all the right places, the bell sleeves fluttering as she moves. The dress flows down to her ankles, cinched at the waist, and flares out into a mermaid shape. She looks like she stepped out of a dream. Her long blonde hair cascades down her back in loose waves, catching the light as she moves. Her brown heels click softly on the floor, the thin straps wrapping around her ankles. She’s perfection.

Her husband is right behind her, his hand resting on the small of her back, probably guiding her as they make their way to their usual spot. He’s nodding and smiling at the old lady, probably saying all the right things, but my eyes are locked on Mrs. Carter. How does she do it? How does she make everything seem so effortless?