A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 8
The apartment was dark, the air thick with the smell of stale tears and untouched meals. Grace had been lying on the cold floor for hours, her body weak, her mind drowning in regret. The phone, now silent, lay just inches from her limp fingers—the last connection to the family she had pushed away.
Outside, the rain poured heavily, tapping against the window like desperate fingers trying to wake her.
But Grace didn’t stir.
Michael sat at the dining table in their home, staring at his untouched dinner. Sarah, Daniel, and little Joy were unusually quiet, their eyes downcast.
"Dad," Sarah whispered, her voice trembling. "What if something’s wrong with Mom?"
Michael’s chest tightened. He had called Grace a dozen times. Sent messages. Begged. But there had been no response.
Not even a "leave me alone."
Just silence.
Too much silence.
Daniel, always the observant one, spoke up. "What if she’s sick? Or… or hurt?"
Michael’s hands clenched into fists. He had tried to respect Grace’s space, to give her time. But this—this silence—was different.
Something was wrong.
He stood abruptly, grabbing his car keys. "We’re going to check on her."
The drive to Grace’s apartment felt like the longest of Michael’s life. The children sat in tense silence, their small hands gripping the seats.
When they arrived, Michael knocked—once, twice, three times.
No answer.
His heart pounded. "Grace!" he called, banging harder. "Grace, open the door!"
Still nothing.
Panic clawed at his throat. He turned to the building supervisor, who, after seeing the fear in Michael’s eyes, quickly unlocked the door.
The sight that greeted them shattered Michael’s heart.
Grace lay crumpled on the floor, her skin pale, her lips cracked. Tears had dried on her cheeks, her eyes swollen from crying.
"Mom!" Sarah screamed, rushing forward.
Michael was at Grace’s side in an instant, lifting her frail body into his arms. She was burning up, her breathing shallow.
"Call an ambulance!" he barked, his voice raw with fear.
Little Joy burst into tears, clinging to Daniel as they watched their father cradle their mother, his own tears falling onto her face.
"Grace," Michael whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "I’m here. We’re *all* here."
The sterile white lights of the hospital buzzed overhead as doctors and nurses moved around Grace’s unconscious form.
"Severe dehydration," one doctor said. "Extreme stress. Her body just… shut down."
Michael sat by her bedside, his large hand wrapped around Grace’s small one. The children hovered close, their eyes wide with fear.
Sarah, trying to be strong, wiped her tears and held Joy’s hand. "She’s gonna be okay," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Daniel, ever the quiet thinker, stared at his mother’s face. "Why didn’t she call us?" he asked softly.
Michael swallowed hard. "Because she thought we didn’t want her anymore."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Grace’s eyelids fluttered open hours later, her vision blurry.
The first thing she saw was Michael’s exhausted face, his stubble rough, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
Then—Sarah, Daniel, Joy. All staring at her with a mix of relief and lingering hurt.
Grace’s breath hitched.
They came for me.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as shame crashed into her. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked. "I—I’m sorry…"
Michael squeezed her hand gently. "Shhh. Don’t talk."
Joy, unable to hold back any longer, climbed onto the bed and buried her face in Grace’s neck. "Don’t leave us again, Mama," she sobbed.
Grace’s arms—weak as they were—wrapped around her baby, holding her tight. Sarah and Daniel joined, their warmth seeping into Grace’s cold bones.
Michael leaned down, pressing a kiss to Grace’s forehead. "We never stopped loving you," he murmured. "We never *will*."
Grace closed her eyes, letting their love wash over her. For the first time in months, the storm inside her stilled.
Recovery was slow but steady.
Michael took time off work, refusing to leave Grace’s side. The children took turns reading to her, bringing her favorite foods, filling the hospital room with laughter and life.
One evening, as Grace sat propped up in bed, Michael handed her a cup of tea—just the way she liked it. Two sugars, a splash of milk.
She smiled weakly. "You remembered."
Michael sat beside her, his voice soft. "I remember everything, Grace."
A pause. Then—
"Pastor Gideon never came, did he?"
Grace’s smile faded. She shook her head.
Michael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t press. Instead, he pulled her closer. "You don’t need him. You have us"
And for the first time, Grace believed it.
As the days passed, Grace’s strength returned—not just physically, but emotionally.
The panic attacks lessened. The nightmares faded.
Because every time she woke in fear, Michael was there to hold her.
Every time she doubted, Sarah was there to remind her, "We love you, Mom."
Every time guilt threatened to swallow her, Daniel would slip his hand into hers, silent but steady.
And Joy—her baby—would climb into her lap and whisper, "You’re my favorite person in the whole world."
Grace had spent months believing she was alone.
But her family had never left.
Not really.
The storm has passed now comes the sunrise
TO BE CONTINUED...
PART 8
The apartment was dark, the air thick with the smell of stale tears and untouched meals. Grace had been lying on the cold floor for hours, her body weak, her mind drowning in regret. The phone, now silent, lay just inches from her limp fingers—the last connection to the family she had pushed away.
Outside, the rain poured heavily, tapping against the window like desperate fingers trying to wake her.
But Grace didn’t stir.
Michael sat at the dining table in their home, staring at his untouched dinner. Sarah, Daniel, and little Joy were unusually quiet, their eyes downcast.
"Dad," Sarah whispered, her voice trembling. "What if something’s wrong with Mom?"
Michael’s chest tightened. He had called Grace a dozen times. Sent messages. Begged. But there had been no response.
Not even a "leave me alone."
Just silence.
Too much silence.
Daniel, always the observant one, spoke up. "What if she’s sick? Or… or hurt?"
Michael’s hands clenched into fists. He had tried to respect Grace’s space, to give her time. But this—this silence—was different.
Something was wrong.
He stood abruptly, grabbing his car keys. "We’re going to check on her."
The drive to Grace’s apartment felt like the longest of Michael’s life. The children sat in tense silence, their small hands gripping the seats.
When they arrived, Michael knocked—once, twice, three times.
No answer.
His heart pounded. "Grace!" he called, banging harder. "Grace, open the door!"
Still nothing.
Panic clawed at his throat. He turned to the building supervisor, who, after seeing the fear in Michael’s eyes, quickly unlocked the door.
The sight that greeted them shattered Michael’s heart.
Grace lay crumpled on the floor, her skin pale, her lips cracked. Tears had dried on her cheeks, her eyes swollen from crying.
"Mom!" Sarah screamed, rushing forward.
Michael was at Grace’s side in an instant, lifting her frail body into his arms. She was burning up, her breathing shallow.
"Call an ambulance!" he barked, his voice raw with fear.
Little Joy burst into tears, clinging to Daniel as they watched their father cradle their mother, his own tears falling onto her face.
"Grace," Michael whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "I’m here. We’re *all* here."
The sterile white lights of the hospital buzzed overhead as doctors and nurses moved around Grace’s unconscious form.
"Severe dehydration," one doctor said. "Extreme stress. Her body just… shut down."
Michael sat by her bedside, his large hand wrapped around Grace’s small one. The children hovered close, their eyes wide with fear.
Sarah, trying to be strong, wiped her tears and held Joy’s hand. "She’s gonna be okay," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Daniel, ever the quiet thinker, stared at his mother’s face. "Why didn’t she call us?" he asked softly.
Michael swallowed hard. "Because she thought we didn’t want her anymore."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Grace’s eyelids fluttered open hours later, her vision blurry.
The first thing she saw was Michael’s exhausted face, his stubble rough, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
Then—Sarah, Daniel, Joy. All staring at her with a mix of relief and lingering hurt.
Grace’s breath hitched.
They came for me.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as shame crashed into her. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked. "I—I’m sorry…"
Michael squeezed her hand gently. "Shhh. Don’t talk."
Joy, unable to hold back any longer, climbed onto the bed and buried her face in Grace’s neck. "Don’t leave us again, Mama," she sobbed.
Grace’s arms—weak as they were—wrapped around her baby, holding her tight. Sarah and Daniel joined, their warmth seeping into Grace’s cold bones.
Michael leaned down, pressing a kiss to Grace’s forehead. "We never stopped loving you," he murmured. "We never *will*."
Grace closed her eyes, letting their love wash over her. For the first time in months, the storm inside her stilled.
Recovery was slow but steady.
Michael took time off work, refusing to leave Grace’s side. The children took turns reading to her, bringing her favorite foods, filling the hospital room with laughter and life.
One evening, as Grace sat propped up in bed, Michael handed her a cup of tea—just the way she liked it. Two sugars, a splash of milk.
She smiled weakly. "You remembered."
Michael sat beside her, his voice soft. "I remember everything, Grace."
A pause. Then—
"Pastor Gideon never came, did he?"
Grace’s smile faded. She shook her head.
Michael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t press. Instead, he pulled her closer. "You don’t need him. You have us"
And for the first time, Grace believed it.
As the days passed, Grace’s strength returned—not just physically, but emotionally.
The panic attacks lessened. The nightmares faded.
Because every time she woke in fear, Michael was there to hold her.
Every time she doubted, Sarah was there to remind her, "We love you, Mom."
Every time guilt threatened to swallow her, Daniel would slip his hand into hers, silent but steady.
And Joy—her baby—would climb into her lap and whisper, "You’re my favorite person in the whole world."
Grace had spent months believing she was alone.
But her family had never left.
Not really.
The storm has passed now comes the sunrise
TO BE CONTINUED...
A PASTOR'S BETRAYAL
PART 8
The apartment was dark, the air thick with the smell of stale tears and untouched meals. Grace had been lying on the cold floor for hours, her body weak, her mind drowning in regret. The phone, now silent, lay just inches from her limp fingers—the last connection to the family she had pushed away.
Outside, the rain poured heavily, tapping against the window like desperate fingers trying to wake her.
But Grace didn’t stir.
Michael sat at the dining table in their home, staring at his untouched dinner. Sarah, Daniel, and little Joy were unusually quiet, their eyes downcast.
"Dad," Sarah whispered, her voice trembling. "What if something’s wrong with Mom?"
Michael’s chest tightened. He had called Grace a dozen times. Sent messages. Begged. But there had been no response.
Not even a "leave me alone."
Just silence.
Too much silence.
Daniel, always the observant one, spoke up. "What if she’s sick? Or… or hurt?"
Michael’s hands clenched into fists. He had tried to respect Grace’s space, to give her time. But this—this silence—was different.
Something was wrong.
He stood abruptly, grabbing his car keys. "We’re going to check on her."
The drive to Grace’s apartment felt like the longest of Michael’s life. The children sat in tense silence, their small hands gripping the seats.
When they arrived, Michael knocked—once, twice, three times.
No answer.
His heart pounded. "Grace!" he called, banging harder. "Grace, open the door!"
Still nothing.
Panic clawed at his throat. He turned to the building supervisor, who, after seeing the fear in Michael’s eyes, quickly unlocked the door.
The sight that greeted them shattered Michael’s heart.
Grace lay crumpled on the floor, her skin pale, her lips cracked. Tears had dried on her cheeks, her eyes swollen from crying.
"Mom!" Sarah screamed, rushing forward.
Michael was at Grace’s side in an instant, lifting her frail body into his arms. She was burning up, her breathing shallow.
"Call an ambulance!" he barked, his voice raw with fear.
Little Joy burst into tears, clinging to Daniel as they watched their father cradle their mother, his own tears falling onto her face.
"Grace," Michael whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "I’m here. We’re *all* here."
The sterile white lights of the hospital buzzed overhead as doctors and nurses moved around Grace’s unconscious form.
"Severe dehydration," one doctor said. "Extreme stress. Her body just… shut down."
Michael sat by her bedside, his large hand wrapped around Grace’s small one. The children hovered close, their eyes wide with fear.
Sarah, trying to be strong, wiped her tears and held Joy’s hand. "She’s gonna be okay," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Daniel, ever the quiet thinker, stared at his mother’s face. "Why didn’t she call us?" he asked softly.
Michael swallowed hard. "Because she thought we didn’t want her anymore."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Grace’s eyelids fluttered open hours later, her vision blurry.
The first thing she saw was Michael’s exhausted face, his stubble rough, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
Then—Sarah, Daniel, Joy. All staring at her with a mix of relief and lingering hurt.
Grace’s breath hitched.
They came for me.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as shame crashed into her. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked. "I—I’m sorry…"
Michael squeezed her hand gently. "Shhh. Don’t talk."
Joy, unable to hold back any longer, climbed onto the bed and buried her face in Grace’s neck. "Don’t leave us again, Mama," she sobbed.
Grace’s arms—weak as they were—wrapped around her baby, holding her tight. Sarah and Daniel joined, their warmth seeping into Grace’s cold bones.
Michael leaned down, pressing a kiss to Grace’s forehead. "We never stopped loving you," he murmured. "We never *will*."
Grace closed her eyes, letting their love wash over her. For the first time in months, the storm inside her stilled.
Recovery was slow but steady.
Michael took time off work, refusing to leave Grace’s side. The children took turns reading to her, bringing her favorite foods, filling the hospital room with laughter and life.
One evening, as Grace sat propped up in bed, Michael handed her a cup of tea—just the way she liked it. Two sugars, a splash of milk.
She smiled weakly. "You remembered."
Michael sat beside her, his voice soft. "I remember everything, Grace."
A pause. Then—
"Pastor Gideon never came, did he?"
Grace’s smile faded. She shook her head.
Michael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t press. Instead, he pulled her closer. "You don’t need him. You have us"
And for the first time, Grace believed it.
As the days passed, Grace’s strength returned—not just physically, but emotionally.
The panic attacks lessened. The nightmares faded.
Because every time she woke in fear, Michael was there to hold her.
Every time she doubted, Sarah was there to remind her, "We love you, Mom."
Every time guilt threatened to swallow her, Daniel would slip his hand into hers, silent but steady.
And Joy—her baby—would climb into her lap and whisper, "You’re my favorite person in the whole world."
Grace had spent months believing she was alone.
But her family had never left.
Not really.
The storm has passed now comes the sunrise
TO BE CONTINUED...
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