He was my anchor, after my ejection from the church. My buoy, maybe. No matter how turbulent the hate and fear-filled waves I slogged through, I could break from floundering to rest my weary arms on his strong back. Solid and quiet, like a secret hero, he avoided confrontation but he saved me nonetheless. He gave me shelter.

Mom despised that. She hid in her room while we drank his home-brewed IPA in the garage, listening to Led Zeppelin records. In rare appearances, her quiet, controlled voice would bring up Jehovah, followed with a jab at me about losing weight or drinking too much. She’d rush out the driveway in the stupid orange car she bought because it matched her Hollywood sunglasses, Dad’s apologetic eyes begging me not to hate her.

I finally gave him the excuse to turn on me, to take sides. I shouted to the world how hard it’s been – a shunned girl missing her family, a victim of religious trauma, Jehovah’s target. Poor, poor me. I called her on her apathy, her cold and bitter gaze, her lack of maternal anything. I broadcast her hatred of me. Why? I guess I needed validation, or maybe just love. She’s got an entire church praising her strength in rejecting her oldest daughter, and what do I have? Silence. Always quiet, always forgiving – trapped beneath the rug they swept me under, vision dark with abandonment issues and self-pity. My sister, an elder’s wife, who’s forgotten I even exist. My mom, condemning my past, present, and future. My dad who turns away to avoid my anguish. I mustered my courage, snatched up that suffocating rug and shook the dirt off right on top of them. I stood up, told my story, and forced a choice.

He chose, today. He chose a seat at the elder’s table over a relationship with his daughter. His worldly, contaminated, sinful daughter. Imperfect. Flawed. Not worth loving. His choice is crashing down over my head in waves, and I’ve lost my buoy. He chose, today, and it wasn’t me.