This is the third chapter in a series. Here is where you can read chapter 1 and chapter 2.
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Twenty-One Years Later
A light rain fell outside the bakery, warm against the bare arms of workers walking home. Manila in the wet season: too hot for umbrellas, too damp for comfort. People shuffled past in mud-streaked boots, shirts plastered to their skin.
Inside, Abigail sat at a small wooden table by the window. This was her favorite hour of the day—after the work at Bahay ng mga Bata was done, after the children were fed and bedded down, when the Sisters slipped into the rhythm of their evening prayers. She could finally sit in stillness and breathe.
The house for street children had been her world for nearly three years now. She had come right after high school, convinced—because God had made it so plain—that this was her calling. At first she even thought she might become a Sister.
But almost from the moment she stepped off the plane, the voice that had guided her went silent.
And still, she stayed. The children bound her there. They needed her.
Abigail pulled her rosary from her pocket and wound it around her knuckles until the beads pressed tight into her skin. She began to pray, her words unspooling like a litany.
“Thank you for this rain. Thank you for keeping Angelo from running away. Please find him a home. Please keep the little ones safe on the streets tonight.”
She prayed for the children in the house, the children who had left, the Sisters, her parents.
“Please help Mom and Dad. You know how hard it’s been. I don’t even know what to say anymore. But you do.”
Her voice trailed off, and her thoughts settled like a pond after the wind dies. She closed her eyes.
“Why am I here? Is this really what You want?”
The silence pressed in.
“I felt so close to you once. Dad told me stories about the saints—Abraham setting out, the prophets shouting to a people who never listened. I thought that was going to be me. An adventure. A mission. Something glorious.” Her voice cracked. “But I don’t… I don’t feel anything. Not at Mass. Not when I read the Bible. Not even now. I’m talking to a wall.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She gripped the rosary tighter, beads biting into her hand.
“Did I do something wrong? Did I misunderstand? I didn’t come here for the kids—I love them, but I came for you.”
She stopped, waiting.
Nothing.
“Have you left me?” she whispered.
Her hand clenched. She pulled the rosary bands until they stretched taut, ready to snap.
And then—
A small face appeared in the window.
Abigail startled. A girl, maybe five years old, stood outside in the drizzle, staring at her. Not with awe or curiosity, the way kids sometimes looked at the American woman, but with sorrow. Her eyes were wide and soft, mirroring the tears on Abigail’s face.
Abigail wiped her cheeks quickly, embarrassed.
The little girl’s expression changed. She grinned, pressed her fingers to the corners of her mouth, and pulled them upward. “Ngiti! Ngiti!” she giggled, tapping the glass. Smile.
Abigail let out a startled laugh. She mirrored the girl, tugging her own mouth into the same crooked grin. “Ngiti.”
The girl clapped and laughed, triumphant. Then her mother swooped in, scolding, tugging her away. The child protested but finally ran off, glancing back once to wave before disappearing into the crowd.
Abigail leaned forward, watching as long as she could. When the girl was gone, she sank back into her chair and breathed deeply.
“Ngiti,” she whispered. “Smile.”
Her grip on the rosary loosened. She let her fingers trace the crucifix at the end, cool against her skin.
“God, I don’t feel you. But I know you’re here. I have what I need. I love you.”
She rose, pushed her chair back, and walked out into the warm rain.
At the table, God remained, watching through the glass as she vanished into the street.
“I love you, too,” he murmured.
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You should know I wrote this with the help of ChatGPT. I explain how I use and don’t use it here.
Catholic Anonymous 
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