“Well, Agnes,” said Father Doherty to his once-favorite niece, standing there in the aisle just this side of the narthex, “I’ve been expecting you. For years now.”
“Uncle Collin,” the young woman sobbed as she approached and fell into a pew, “I’m so lost and terrified.”
What am I supposed to do, Collin thought as he witnessed the pathetic sight, go over there and comfort her in spite of the sin she’s committed? He stood there, the challis of wine in his right hand, turning his head to glance at the crucifix behind him. Jesus had always guided him in crises like these – so he glanced at the sentinel, hoping against hope he could muster any sympathy for this prostrate woman before him.
He could not. The afternoon that had begun quietly in his study, leading to his preparation of the Saturday afternoon mass like he’d done for nearly forty years at this church, had led to this. It was like the death of a loved parent. You knew it would happen one day, but you never knew when or how.
Well, this was the when and how – for Agnes’s confession. He knew she’d come to him one day, seeking forgiveness for the grievous wrong she’d committed, how long ago? Eleven, twelve years? No, longer than that – when she’d first disobeyed him and Siobhan. His lovely sister, driven to leaving Philadelphia because of Agnes’s betrayal. How could he ever forgive her, knowing how she’d hurt his sister?
“Agnes, please stop that sobbing. Tell me what has brought you here. And tell me what led you to make the choices you made.”
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