The church always smelled the same.
Polished wood. Mild perfume. Old hymn books. Aida inhaled slowly as she stepped inside, as though the air itself required reverence. She liked arriving early. It gave her time to settle, time before faces turned, before expectations followed.
She slid into a pew midway down the aisle and rested her Bible on her lap.
Around her, soft murmurs floated.
"Good morning, sis."
"You look lovely today."
"Happy Sunday."
She responded automatically, smiling, nodding. Her body knew the choreography even when her heart lagged behind.
The opening hymn began.
As voices rose together, Aida sang quietly, lips barely moving. The words pressed into her chest in a way she hadn't expected.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
Her throat tightened.
She clasped her hands together and lowered her gaze.
If love is patient… then why does mine hurt?
The pastor stepped forward after worship, greeting the congregation warmly.
"Today," he said, adjusting the microphone, "we will be talking about the responsibility of love."
Aida straightened.
"Not the romantic idea we see in movies," he continued, "but love as God intended it—gentle, honoring, selfless."
Her heart began to pound.
"Especially within marriage," the pastor added.
She swallowed.
Beside her, a few couples leaned closer to each other. A hand rested on a knee. Fingers intertwined.
Aida sat alone.
She imagined Julius beside her, imagined him listening. Imagined him hearing these words and letting them sink in.
Love does not intimidate.
Love does not wound and call it discipline.
Love does not demand silence.
The pastor's voice softened.
"Any home where fear replaces peace needs healing."
Aida's eyes burned.
She bowed her head quickly.
God, she prayed silently, if he were here… if he could just hear this, but if you won't change him please change me.
Her mind betrayed her with images of Julius scrolling through his phone at home, dismissing church as unnecessary, calling it "performative faith."
She pressed her fingers into her palm.
The message continued, layered with scripture and lived examples. The pastor spoke of men who led with humility, of husbands who protected rather than provoked.
Aida felt each sentence land like a question she wasn't ready to answer.
When the sermon ended, the church exhaled together.
"Amen," voices echoed.
She remained seated for a moment longer than necessary, gathering herself.
She felt a breeze. Cool against her forearm.
She glanced down and her stomach dropped.
The sleeve of her blouse had shifted slightly, exposing a faint scar near her wrist. Thin. Pale. Almost invisible unless you knew where to look.
But someone had noticed.
"Sis Aida?"
She looked up quickly.
The women's leader stood beside her, concern etched gently across her face.
"Oh! good morning, ma," Aida said, instinctively pulling her sleeve down.
The woman's gaze lingered anyway.
"Are you alright, dear?" she asked softly. "Your arm…"
Aida froze.
The church noise faded into a low hum.
"It's nothing," Aida said quickly. "Just… old."
The woman tilted her head. "It looks recent."
Aida opened her mouth.
No sound came out.
Her mind raced, work accident, burn, clumsy fall—lies queued and ready. But then she remembered where she was.
She swallowed hard.
"I don't want to talk about it," she said quietly.
The woman studied her for a long moment, then nodded.
"That's okay," she said gently. "When you're ready."
Aida forced a smile. "Thank you."
As the woman walked away, embarrassment washed over her in waves. Not because she'd been seen but because she'd almost lied.
In church, her conscience whispered. You almost lied in church.
She hugged her Bible closer to her chest and stood, blending into the dispersing crowd.
She was halfway down the aisle when a voice stopped her.
" Ms Aida."
Not loud. Not urgent. Just certain.
She turned slowly.
For a second, recognition didn't come, only familiarity. The kind that tugged at the back of her mind. He stood a few steps away, tall, neatly dressed in a simple navy shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to look intentional. Clean-shaven, calm eyes, a face that carried quiet confidence rather than show. He smiled like someone who had seen her before, not as a stranger, but as a constant.
"Yes?" she said carefully.
He chuckled under his breath. "I was wondering if you'd remember me."
Her brows pulled together. "I…"
"Nat," he supplied gently. "From the office."
She inhaled sharply. "Right. Nat." Then, almost apologetic, "You sit on the third floor, near operations."
"Still one rank below you," he said with an easy shrug.
She laughed softly, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I'm terrible with faces outside work."
"That's okay," he said. "You're usually… busy leading things."
She tilted her head. "Is that a complaint?"
"No," he said quickly, smiling. "A compliment."
They fell into step together, walking toward the corridor.
"I didn't know you attended this church," she said.
"Occasionally," he replied. "I come when I need to think."
"That makes sense," she said. "Today's message was… heavy."
He nodded. "But necessary."
She glanced at him. "You think so?"
"Yes," he said. "Especially the part about leadership at home being gentleness, not control."
She let out a short laugh. "That part felt personal."
He smiled. "I thought of work, actually."
She stopped walking. "Work?"
"Yes," he said. "You lead without humiliating people. You correct without crushing. That's rare."
Her lips parted slightly. "You noticed that?"
"I work under you," he said. "It would be hard not to."
She laughed again, this time more openly. "Well, I hope I'm not terrifying."
"Only when deadlines are involved," he teased.
She shook her head. "Fair."
They reached the corridor near the exit. Sunlight spilled in through the tall windows.
"You looked… moved during the sermon," he said carefully.
She hesitated. "I was."
He didn't press.
"I think sometimes," she continued, choosing her words, "we hear things we've been trying to avoid."
"That's true," he agreed. "But hearing is the first step."
She nodded.
As she shifted her Bible to her other arm, the fabric of her sleeve moved slightly.
Nat's eyes flickered—not lingering, not alarmed—just a brief acknowledgment of the scar before returning to her face.
He didn't ask.
Didn't react.
Just said softly, "Be good to yourself, Aida."
She looked at him, surprised. "What?"
"Choose yourself," he added gently. "Daily."
Something in her chest loosened.
She smiled, small but genuine. "That sounds like advice."
"It is," he said lightly. "Free of charge."
She laughed. "I'll take it."
They paused, an unspoken understanding settling between them—quiet, respectful.
"Well," she said, adjusting her bag, "I should get going."
"Of course," he replied. "Good seeing you."
"You too, Nat."
As she walked away, she realized something unsettling and comforting all at once.
For some weird reason she felt a sense of fresh air, she had laughed without forcing it.
At home later, the house was silent when she arrived.
Julius sat at the dining table, files spread out before him.
"You're back," he said without looking up.
"Yes," Aida replied, setting her bag down.
She hesitated, then spoke.
"I went to church today."
He scoffed lightly. "I know."
"I was thinking…" she began carefully. "Maybe you could come with me next time."
He looked up then. "Why?"
"I think it would be good," she said. "For us."
"For us how?" he pressed.
"The sermon was about marriage," she said. "About kindness. Responsibility."
He leaned back in his chair. "So now church is your therapy?"
"That's not what I mean," she said quickly. "I just think—"
"You think I need to be taught how to treat my wife?" His voice sharpened.
"No," she said softly. "I think we could both listen."
Silence stretched.
Then he laughed once. Cold. "You always do this."
"Do what?"
"Try to make me look like the problem."
"I'm not…"
"My mother called today," he cut in.
Aida paused. "She did?"
"Yes. She wants us to visit next weekend."
"Why?"
"There's a charity fundraising she's organizing," he said casually. "Children in need."
Her chest tightened, but she nodded. "Okay."
"And Aida?" he added, gathering his files. "Don't try to fix me with church."
She watched him walk away.
Her fingers curled slowly at her sides.
The sermon echoed again in her mind.
Any home where fear replaces peace needs healing.