A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 7
The apartment was silent except for the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall.
Grace sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone. The screen displayed the same notifications she had been ignoring for weeks:
- 14 Missed Calls from Michael
- 23 Unread Messages from Sarah
- 5 Voicemails
Her finger hovered over the screen, trembling.
What if they hate me?
What if it’s too late?
A part of her was still clinging to Pastor Gideon’s words—"They abandoned you. The church is your family now."
But the pastor hadn’t called. Hadn’t visited. Hadn’t even replied to her last desperate text.
The truth was creeping in, slow and suffocating.
She had been used.
Grace dialed Pastor Gideon’s number for the fifth time that day.
It went straight to voicemail.
Again.
Her chest tightened. She scrolled through their past messages—all her pleas for spiritual guidance, for comfort, for anything—left on read.
The last message he had sent was over three weeks ago:
"Sister Grace, your sacrifice has been noted in heaven. God will reward you in due time."
Then—nothing.
Grace’s breath came in shallow gasps as she stared at the church’s social media page. There was Pastor Gideon, smiling in a sleek new suit, standing beside a luxury car, captioned:
"Blessed beyond measure! Thank you, Lord, for your provision!"
Her money.
Her house.
Her life.
All turned into his trophies.
A sob tore from her throat.
With shaking hands, Grace finally tapped on Sarah’s messages.
The first one was from two months ago:
"Mom, please call me. I miss you."
Then, a week later:
"Dad cries every night. Why won’t you talk to us?"
The most recent one, sent just three days ago:
"Joy keeps asking for you. She thinks you don’t love her anymore. Please, Mom… just say something."
Grace’s vision blurred.
She hadn’t known.
She hadn’t let herself know.
Her fingers moved on their own, opening Michael’s voicemails.
His voice—rough with emotion—filled the room.
"Grace… it’s me."
A pause. A shaky breath.
"The kids… they’re not okay. Sarah had a nightmare last night and called out for you. I didn’t know what to tell her."
Another pause.
"I don’t know what that pastor told you, but… I never stopped loving you. I never wanted this divorce. I just… I just didn’t know how to fix things."
A muffled sound—was he crying?
"Grace, please. If you ever loved us… just come home."
The message ended.
Grace sat frozen.
Then—
A second voicemail played automatically.
Sarah’s voice, small and broken:
"Mom… it’s my birthday today. You forgot. Dad tried to make it special, but… it’s not the same. I just want you here."*
A third voicemail.
Joy, her baby, whispering through tears:
"Mama… come back. I’ll be good. I promise."
Grace couldn’t breathe.
The room spun.
Her chest burned as if someone had reached inside and ripped her heart out.
What have I done?
What have I DONE?
She stumbled to her feet, gasping, her hands clutching at her chest.
The walls closed in.
The phone slipped from her fingers.
Darkness swallowed her vision.
The last thing she heard was the sound of her own body hitting the floor.
TO BE CONTINUED...