Page 76 of For Cowgirls and Kings

February 23rd, 2025

“What have you done?”my mother asks, her voice thick with anger.

My lip trembles as I wipe away another tear making a break for my chin. “I didn’t mean for this to?—”

“If you only lived here, where your family could have protected you.”

I inhale. “Mama, I’m sorry but?—”

“You should be.” Her words lower to a whisper, “Did you not pray for forgiveness for your sins? If you had, maybe the devil wouldn’t have sought you out. If you had, surely god would have protected you.”

“I don’t think?—”

“Do you know no shame? You’re ruined.”

Numbness spreads through my veins like poison, and I snap my mouth shut, unable to form any more words. They’re useless anyway.

Picking at the hem of my shirt I sit in silence, tears tumbling unchecked down my neck, waiting for her tirade to continue.If my own mother thinks I’m irredeemable in the eyes of god and in the hearts of those who know me, what’s the point of trying?

I’m not sure Mama is evil—I just think she’s ignorant and afraid. And for so long I’ve carried her naivety and fear as my own personal burdens.

But fuck,I’m tired—the weight becoming too much to bare.

I’d never speak to my child the way she does me. I believe she loves me, but she fears for my soul because she doesn't think I fear for it myself.

She’s wrong.

I fear so greatly for my soul, I can barely stand to look in the mirror.

“You’ve done this, and now what? How will I tell your father?”

I keep picking at the hem, a string pulling free and I yank on it, watching the fabric unravel in my hands—just like my life.

I’m dirty now.

She huffs on the other end, and I can tell she’s warring with herself over whether to say more. “I need time, Adalene.” And then the line goes dead.

I stare blankly at the wall, her words rattling around like glass shards in my numb skull.

Why bother?

My phone buzzes but I continue to stare at a small bump in the paint of an otherwise flawless white covering the bedroom wall.A mistake.

It buzzes again, and a moment later a third time.

Reluctantly I open the chain of messages, both loving and dreading these interactions. I want my friends—they’re the only thing keeping me on this side of the soil. But I dread their prying questions or pitying words. They don’t do it on purpose, and I don’t know what I’d rather them say. Everything is wrong in my life, and because of that, nothing anyone does can be right.

It’s all my fault, these feelings.

If only I could focus on being positive. If only I had control of something,anything.

STETSON: How’d the phone call with your parents go?

I stare at the words, fighting the irritation instantly flaring inside of me. I know she asks because she cares. I also know she’s gotten bolder with her questions and comments because she trusts our friendship—the strength of our bond. That should be a good thing, that should make me feel good.So why do I want to chew her ass for being a nosy bitch?

FAITH: We’re here for you!

FAITH: Anything we can do to help?