We’re in the middle near the back. Behind all the perfect families. Women in wrinkle-free dresses singing about bathing in His blood, men in khakis pretending their wives didn’t drag them out of bed this morning, and children avoiding eye contact with the pastor so they don’t get asked to come to the front to worship. These perfect Christians, ignorant to their own fallacies, have never accepted us. Not my father’s drug problem. Not my mother’s willingness to be a single mother or her decision to always take him back.
