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I can see Father Joseph processing, separating threads I can’t untangle. “You believe he killed his former wife,” he says. “Do you know this, or do you believe it because everyone says so?”

Even though the question is fair, I want to resent it. “I guess I don’t actually know know,” I admit, feeling slightly miffed at having to admit that.

Despite the seriousness, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he reminds me that one should never listen to rumors. He’s right, of course. And yes, okay, I don’t know if there’s any merit to this particular rumor. But when enough people whisper it, it sounds like the truth.

“I’m not sure if it would be foolish to brush it away,” I say thoughtfully.

Father Joseph doesn’t tell me what to think, nor does he even try to influence me. He just sits there, letting me think through everything on my own. Feeling all talked out, I take a large sip of water, letting it cool my throat.

“You said you’re supposed to give him what a wife gives a husband,” he says when he sets the glass down. “Tell me what you mean.”

The memory of the time we’ve spent in our bed is visceral, immediate. “The night of our wedding, I waited for him in bed for hours. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. What you said wives are supposed to do.”

I look up, searching Father Joseph’s face for judgment, for disappointment.

“You told me marriage is a union in every sense. That husband and wife give themselves to each other. And I thought if I could be what I was supposed to be, then maybe I’d be safe. Maybe he’d want me enough to keep me alive.”

His expression shifts into one of surprise and discomfort. “Kira,” he says, and his voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “When I spoke to you about marriage being a union in every sense, I was not telling you that your body is currency to be exchanged for safety.”

I feel tears building, pressure behind my eyes I didn’t expect. “But you said—”

“I said husband and wife give themselves to one another,” he interrupts, not unkindly. “And they do. But that giving is meant to be a mutual gift.”

The tears spill over, tracking down my cheeks, and I don’t wipe them away. I’m so confused and overwhelmed right now. I don’t know if I want my husband, or if I just want to survive. Is there even a difference?

What I do know is that when he touched me and made me come, it felt good and like something I wanted. If Domenico had taken it further then and there, duty wouldn’t have mattered. I wanted it and would have done it for myself.

Father Joseph hands me a tissue from the box he keeps on his desk. I press it to my face, breathing through the softness, through the familiar scent of lavender and old paper.

Then he leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “What do you actually want, Kira? Not what your father demanded, not what you think survival requires. What do you want?”

The question is enormous. I feel it expand in my chest, filling spaces I’ve kept carefully empty.

“I want to not be afraid all the time,” I sniffle slowly. “I want to understand what’s happening to me instead of just reacting to it. I want my mom to get better, to wake up, to know that I did this for her and not hate me for it.”

Father Joseph nods. “Those are real wants,” he says. “And definitely things worth wanting. The question of whether you can have them with this man, in this marriage, that’s between you and him, and perhaps God. I can’t give you that answer.”

I know what he’s not saying: talk to your husband, Kira. He’s the only one who can answer your questions. And I get that. But how do you ask someone if they’re going to kill you?

With a frustrated huff, I blow some strands of hair from my face while considering everything Father Joseph has said. Maybe this isn’t about answers, but about faith. Not just in God, but in myself.

So far, he hasn’t given me a reason to think he’d harm me. If I look at his actions and forget about the rumors, he hasn’t been cruel or abusive. Yes, he’s decisive and commanding. He’s definitely not gentle. But he also stopped my dad from hitting me.

Domenico used force to get what he wanted, he even threatened Father Joseph. That’s hard to reconcile with the man who, today, gave me space to find my feet and freedom to come here.

I sit with this, feeling it settle into places that have been clenched tight since last week. It fixes nothing. It doesn’t make Domenico safe, or my marriage simple, or my fear irrelevant. But it gives me something to hold on to.

“Do you feel better now?” Father Joseph asks, clearly reading my slowly relaxing posture correctly.

I nod slowly. “I think so.”

“Would you pray with me?” he asks.

The request is familiar, comforting in its ordinariness. We’ve prayed together plenty of times over the years. Prayer has always been the ground we meet on, the language we share when ordinary words fail.

“Yes,” I say. “Please.”

He comes around the desk and lowers himself into the chair beside me, close enough that our knees almost touch. He doesn’t take my hand—that’s not his way, not in this context—but he bows his head, and I bow mine.