From the outside, our house looked like proof that God had favorites.
White pillars. Shining cars. A gate that opened smoothly whenever church members came visiting. People admired it the way they admired my father.
"Such a blessed family," they would say.
My father was a respected pastor. His voice filled the church with authority every Sunday. When he preached about holiness, people cried. When he prayed, the congregation shook. He spoke about love, discipline, and righteousness like a man who had never sinned.
But at home, things were different.
At home, my father did not need a microphone to control a room.
He used his breathing.
When something displeased him—a misplaced plate, a question from my mother, a small mistake—he would pause.
Then inhale.
Slow. Deep. Heavy.
That was the warning.
My mother understood it. I understood it. Even my little brother, Daniel, learned it early. Whenever that breath filled the air, the house became quiet. Not peaceful quiet—fearful quiet.
My mother always smiled in church, dressed in elegant lace beside her husband. People admired her patience. They called her lucky.
They didn't see how carefully she moved at home.
How softly she placed plates on the table. How quickly she apologized. How she avoided looking directly into his eyes when he was irritated.
One night, she laughed too loudly at something on television.
My father muted the TV.
And breathed.
The laughter disappeared.
That was the thing about my father. He didn't always shout. He didn't always raise his hands.
Sometimes, he just breathed.
And the air in the room would change.
I used to think every father was like that—calm before anger, controlled before punishment. I thought it was normal.
Until I realized something no one in church seemed to know:
The man who preached about light every Sunday carried darkness home with him.
And that darkness lived with us.