I am not Catholic.

No one in my family is.

And yet here I am—sitting in the back of a church, clutching a bingo card and a chipped plastic cup of tea, listening to a retired nun remind us to be grateful.

The table beside her is filled with prizes.

It took me months to notice the pattern: nothing is new. Everyone brings something from home and places it there, as if ownership alone makes it worthy.

My grandmother brought a spare bag of flower bulbs.
I added a set of oven warmers.

“It’s so nice you’re here, Freya,” Petra says, squeezing my hand as she peers at my bingo card.

All of my grandmother’s friends smell the same—expensive perfume layered over cheap cigarettes, a scent that clings long after they’ve moved away.

“You missed C-twelve,” Petra adds lightly, stamping the number with the back of her pen before I can react.
“Pay attention, dear. There are some lovely prizes tonight.”

I smile and nod, polite by reflex.

I hope I lose tonight—avoid the stress of claiming a prize in front of the Eldermoor Bingo Society.

“You look so much like your mother,” Stefanie says, tilting her head. “Uncanny.”

She pulls a small bottle of brandy from her purse, glances around the hall, then tips it discreetly into her teacup, as if this is the most natural thing in the world to do on a Sunday afternoon in a church hall.

“She was charming,” Stefanie says, almost fondly.
“A little naïve about life—but beautiful.”

Petra hums in agreement.

“She always thought love would be enough,” she adds. “Some people do.”

I glance at my grandmother.

Glasses balanced on the tip of her nose.
Six bingo cards laid out with care.
Stamp pen in one hand.
An e-cigarette in the other.

The numbers are called in a flat, droning voice—steady, unchanging.

If the number is on her card, she stamps it.
If it isn’t, she inhales.

D-56.

The stamp lands. Sharp. Final.

Nathaniel would hate it here—the noise, the chaos, the rules bent by favouritism.

The thought makes me smile.

“My grandson is coming to town next week,” Stefanie says, topping off Petra’s teacup with the last of the brandy.

“Oh, Julius,” Petra replies, her voice brightening just a shade too much.
“He’s a lawyer. Very ambitious. Very driven.”

Stefanie nods, pleased.

“Unbelievable that he’s still single,” my grandmother adds, eyes never leaving her cards.
“So much potential.”

As if this conversation hasn’t already been rehearsed.

Sensing exactly where this is going, I keep my mouth shut and focus on my card.

“Julius is very settled,” Petra continues gently.
“Knows what he wants. That makes all the difference.”

Does it?
Does anyone?

There’s a pause. Not quite long enough to be polite.

“Freya, dear,” Stefanie says. “You’re not seeing anyone, are you? Why don’t you come by for dinner? Meet him.”

My pulse jumps, baffled by how quickly this escalates.

Whatever they’re grasping for, I don’t want it.

“Oh—uh…” I start. Then I feel my grandmother’s attention sharpen.

I swallow.

“I’m not… available.”

It feels right.

Astrid’s mouth tightens. Her friends glance at her, curiosity flickering behind their smiles.

“It’s nothing serious,” Astrid says smoothly, waving it away before I can add anything.
“He’s always put ambition first.”

That isn’t true.

And I hate how easily they erase him.

“Try not to repeat your mother’s pattern,” Stefanie says lightly.
“She always trusted the wrong promises.”

Petra hums thoughtfully, sipping her tea.
“Some people aren’t made for small towns—or the patience they require.”

My grandmother’s voice follows, soft but sharp.
“And young people want everything to feel easy these days.”

Nothing about my life feels easy—balancing two careers, a body always expected to perform, and a heart that refuses to choose comfort over truth.

“It’s not like that with Nathaniel,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Oh,” Stefanie replies softly. “You’re still attached to him.”

How could I not be?

He is Nathaniel.

“Of course I—”

Petra hums. “He was always… generous with his attention.”

“Even as a teenager,” Stefanie adds. “Charming. Unsettled.”

“That kind of boy rarely becomes a different man,” my grandmother says quietly.

“He did,” I say.

Not loudly.
Not sharply.

Just true.

None of them looks at me.

The words dry up on my tongue.

They don’t want to understand.

So I close my mouth, press my lips together, and lower my gaze back to the card.

The numbers keep coming.
The stamp keeps landing.
The smoke curls upward.

And no one says anything else.

My grandmother and I walk home in silence.

She carries a ceramic bowl and a glass carafe, a small, satisfied smirk on her face—proof of her bingo victory.

I won nothing.

Thank God.

“I had such a lovely time,” she says, cheerful. “Next week will be even better. We’ll save you a seat.”

The brandy-and-fruit tang of her tobacco must have blurred her memory.

I stop walking.

“I’m not coming next week,” I say. “I’m not coming back at all.”

She turns, genuinely startled. “But why, dear?”

Then her face softens, conspiratorial.

“Oh—this is about Julius, isn’t it? If you’re busy next week, I’m sure he’d be happy to take a rain check.”

“I’m not interested in Julius,” I say. “And no—that’s the least of my problems.”

Astrid stops walking too. She lets out a dramatic sigh, practiced and weary.

“Then what’s gotten you so emotional?”

I laugh. Hard. Too loud.

“The way you talked about Nathaniel,” I say. “The way all of you talked about Mom.”

She doesn’t answer.

Her gaze drifts past me, unfocused, as if she’s seeing someone else standing in the street.

Her tight mouth softens into something that almost looks like a smile.

“We worry about you,” she says lightly. “That’s all. Don’t overthink it, dear.”

I stare at her.

A question I’ve carried for years presses forward—demanding now, after tonight.

“Why did Mom leave?”

Short. Simple.

Astrid turns her head.
“I’ve told you. She left. She didn’t come back. That’s the end of it.”

I step closer, place my hand on her arm.

“No,” I say. “Don’t do this. Tell me the truth.”

Her voice hardens. Raw. Bitter.

“She was foolish—like you. Believed in false promises. Followed ambition and lost her home.”

“That can’t be the whole story,” I say quietly.
“I know you stayed in touch. She cried after your calls. Every time.”

“That’s not my fault,” Astrid snaps.
“She couldn’t be reasoned with.”

I lower my gaze, fingers tightening around her arm.

“You never came to visit us in Sweden.”

She jerks her arm away. I instinctively hold on for a second longer.

“I wasn’t the one who left,” she says, teeth pressed together.
“She should have come to me.”

The movement is sudden.

My hand slips.

The bowl drops.

Ceramic shatters against the pavement.

Astrid looks down at the pieces.

Then she turns and walks away—without a word, without looking back.

I kneel and begin gathering the shards, my fingers careful, methodical.