You are pulled from sleep by the sound of water rushing through pipes, the groan of the house stretching in the morning chill. The bedroom light flicks on, too bright, too sudden. Your mother stands in the doorway, hair half-done, makeup unfinished.

“Up,” she says, voice tight with impatience. “We’re going to be late.”

Late for what?

You rub at your eyes, sluggish, limbs still tangled in sleep. But then your father’s voice cuts in from behind her.

“Come on, kiddo! We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

That’s new.

He’s usually the last one to rise, slouched at the table, clutching a coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. But today, he moves with a renewed purpose. The two of them stand in the threshold of your room, staring at you pleasantly, waiting for you to get up – so you do.

The house smells different than other mornings. There’s the scent of pressed fabric, of soap, of your mother’s perfume—the one she only wears when she has to. There is the faint trace of your father’s cologne, something clean and sharp, something that clings to him now in a way liquor once did.

Your shoes are too tight, dress shirt too stiff, too scratchy, and the air is thick with the quiet tension of forced effort – of reluctant togetherness. You squirm as your mother buttons it up to your throat, her fingers quick, practiced. “Hold still,” she murmurs.

The mirror reflects a version of you that feels unfamiliar, dressed up and polished like something meant to be displayed rather than worn.

Your father fumbles with his tie, and he mutters something about how it’s been a long time. Your mother, adjusting an earring, sighs before she speaks.

“You’re sure about this?”

The suit he wears doesn’t quite fit right—it pinches at the shoulders, the sleeves an inch too short—but he doesn’t seem to care. He straightens the cuffs, glancing at his reflection in the hallway mirror, and when he exhales, it sounds almost like relief.

“I need this.” A pause, then, softer, “We all do.”

Your mother is less enthused. She buttons your coat too fast, too rough, lips pursed, eyes distant. She has not said much this morning. I watch as she steals a glance at your father, as if trying to decide if this is something real or just another phase.

You don’t ask questions as you’re ushered to the car, as your shoes scuff against frozen pavement. You only watch.

The air inside the vehicle is stiff with unsaid things.

When the radio clicks on, your father reaches for the dial and turns it—to static, to silence, then to gospel. He nods along to the choir, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

“This’ll be great,” he says, though no one asked. “You’ll see.”

When you arrive, I do not follow you inside.

I reach the church doors and stop.

Go ahead, I’ll wait.

I was not made for places like this.