Reparations

Ken Davis was leaving the seminary. Five years. He’d had enough: constant bells, restriction to grounds, daily chapel, a faith no longer believed, nightly vision of well-lit homes across the way, peopled by families he would never have.

His mother picked him up, in tears. “How can you do this? I was so proud, wanted to see you graduate, ordained. I never stopped telling my friends.”

Or thinking of herself. Slowing the car, she pointed back, demanded: “See what you’re giving up.”

Ken looked only forward. He would find a family of his own. He parted ways twice that day.