Part IV · Fallout
Shepherd
You stood at the altar
week after week,
spoke of grace,
truth,
accountability—
said you were called
to protect the vulnerable.
To guide the flock.
To speak when others stayed silent.
But when I came to you—
shaking,
ashamed,
bruised in places no one sees—
you nodded,
prayed,
and stayed silent.
You knew.
You saw the rage,
the fallout,
the bruises on our son’s face.
He told you what happened.
I told you what happened.
And still—
you wrote the affidavit
and called her
a good mother.
Said she never hit them.
Said she never lost control.
You lied
to the court,
to God,
to me.
All while preaching
“truth sets us free.”
You watched me
try to hold my family together
with bloodied hands
and no support.
Watched her scream and swing
and gaslight
and choke me
while I kept showing up
to your services,
waiting for justice
in a sanctuary built on cowardice.
You said nothing.
Not to DHS.
Not to the judge.
Not even to me.
A mandatory reporter
who chose
to be optional.
You gave her character
while she tore mine apart.
You signed your name to fiction
while I tried to shield our children
from hands you pretended
never struck.
And I wonder—
when you bow your head in prayer,
do you hear my son’s voice?
The crack in it
when he said,
“Mommy hit me.”
Do you hear my own,
begging you to do
what you were legally
and morally
obligated to do?
Or have you convinced yourself
you did the right thing—
because keeping the peace
was more important
than telling the truth?
You were supposed to be
a shepherd.
But you let the wolves in.
Let them sleep in our home.
Told the sheep
they were safe
while blood pooled
in the pasture.
So now I stand
not in your church,
but in a courtroom,
telling the truth
you were too afraid to write.
And I hope to God
that silence weighs heavier
than the pulpit ever did.