𝘝𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦

C. 20

Shoutout: positive_movementz  & whynotdesiree

(Lolll not I came back on bullshit enjoy this and shoutout to people who asked me to update I keep telling yall im forgetful I really will leave yall in dust speak up anyways I gave yall girlies and guyzies 5,900 words enjoy!)

Unknown POV

The choir shouted louder than the rain slapping the church windows, but Aaleetia still outpraised them. Her arms stretched above her head as she hollered toward heaven, voice cracking on every "hallelujah." Sweat ran down her temples, soaking the lace edges of her wig cap, but she didn't care. The Lord was in her lungs, and she had breath to give. Her heels clacked on marble as she moved between pews, collecting the tithe trays and patting down crying ushers who shouted in rhythm beside her. Praise wasn't a performance—it was a breaking. A release. And God always answered.

Farrow sat in the front pew with his ankle crossed, watching her like a stranger. He didn't sing. Didn't raise a hand. Just checked his gold watch twice while tapping his wedding ring against the pew arm. When the service ended and the final "amen" drifted into a post-sermon hum, Aaleetia met him by the pulpit with a bright smile. He didn't smile back.

"We can't keep this up," he muttered, fixing his collar.

Aaleetia tilted her head. "Keep what up, baby?"

"This church," he said, louder now. "We're tithing off fumes, feeding everybody and starving our own damn house. Rent's late. Gas bill ain't been paid. You talkin' 'bout faith, but the light company don't accept hallelujahs."

She let out a soft hum, half pity, half prayer. "You worried too much. God will provide. He always has."

He scoffed under his breath and walked ahead of her to the car, jaw tight the whole ride home.

A year later, the church was still standing. And so was Aaleetia, now teaching little Valentine how to harmonize on old gospel songs in the choir room every Saturday. Valentine's voice was sweet and shaky, more breath than pitch, but Aaleetia encouraged her anyway, tapping her hand to the beat.

They were halfway through "His Eye Is On the Sparrow" when Farrow pulled up outside in a brand-new Escalade with dealership stickers still on the windows. Valentine squealed, running out with her backpack bouncing behind her, but Aaleetia stayed seated, arms crossed over her choir robe. Farrow stepped out with two Gucci bags and a little pink box tied in a satin bow.

"This for you," he said, handing her a velvet dress that looked like it cost more than the church's monthly budget. "And this one's for Vee."

Aaleetia took the gifts quietly, smiling with her mouth and not her eyes. Valentine danced in circles with her box, squealing over a designer doll that came with real earrings and shoes.

Later that night, once Valentine had gone to bed and Farrow was pouring whiskey into his gold-rimmed glass, Aaleetia met him in the kitchen with her arms folded.

"I appreciate the dress," she said slowly. "But I need to ask, where all this comin' from, Farrow? Church still struggling. Vee's tuition needs saving. We ain't hit no lottery."

Farrow leaned against the sink, sipping slow. "Stocks. I got into a new tech company, partnered with a few investors. We rich now, 'Leetia. This ain't struggle money no more."

She nodded once but didn't say a word. Just kissed him on the cheek and turned away. Her spirit stirred, uneasy.

Two months later, her body joined her spirit in protest. Constant UTIs. Sharp, unfamiliar cramps. She sat on the cold edge of the examination table at the local clinic, legs swinging, heart pounding.