If you looked up the term fusspot in any English-speaking dictionary known to man, you'd find a giant-ass picture of my step-grandmother. Especially on Sunday. God's day. Or whatever.

I loved her, of course. Quite a lot. Once when I was nine, I asked her if I could call her Mom—and I meant it with all my heart. When she told me I could do so, I raced through the house calling out, Mom! Mom! Mom! Like a fledgling bird flying for the first time.

Mom was my rock. My anchor.

So I cut Mom some slack. You know the maxim? Don't bitch over the splinter in Mom's eye when you have a giant freaking two-by-four sticking out of your own.

But man, oh man! Sometimes I could kick her butt from here to China.

Mom had this incessant need to arrive at church thirty minutes too early. Otherwise, she believed she was late. That explained why we were sitting in this hard-ass pew before any other living soul.

Mom might have been eighty, but she acted fifty. No joke. The Irish-Canadian matriarch also bore that inexplicable gravitas of certain petite mothers whose very existence inspired awe and compliance. More than my biological mother ever could with her loud voice, giant fists, and bulky frame.

What was up with that?

Mom commanded obedience without violence. Shit, she didn't need it. That woman could shut any of us up with a single piercing look and refused to budge a single inch.

When Mom said go to church, we freaking went to church. And we didn't whine or moan about it.

The whole family had to wear formal attire—a skirt or smart trousers and a blouse for me as long as nothing showed too much skin—and act prim and proper during the entire service.

Mass was a time of quiet reflection. And prayer.

No socializing until afterwards.

That was fine for an introvert like me. Hell, I didn't even like the socializing that followed. But I could have done without the endless nerves before mass and acting like I had a tree up my butt.

Mom couldn't help her quirkiness, though. Born and raised in rural New Brunswick in the early nineteen-tens, she'd lived in an enclosed little Irish enclave. A time bubble. One that recreated Ireland from the early nineteenth century. Or even further back.

In a roundabout way, though, I loved her antiquated beliefs because they saved my life.

After Mom had passed on her outdated values onto her son Chuck, my stepdad, he'd rebelled against her. Big time. Basically he'd turned into a hippie and hated her guts.

Which explained why Chuck could have possibly fallen in love with my psychotic biological mother, a woman eight years his junior, eight inches taller, and eighty pounds heavier. That woman had a tenuous grasp on reality and an infant child. Out of wedlock, no less.

That kid was me.

Had Chuck toed the line of Mom's ideology, my stepdad never would have dated her. Never would have married her. And my mother would probably have killed me. Or herself.

Or both.

Because Chuck rebelled against his parents, I'm still alive.

My step-family had adopted me with little trouble. From the age of nine, I'd lived in a respectable home, the legal daughter of a retired NASA engineer and a brilliant teacher who'd specialized in English and Math.

Like many retired white-collar families, my grandparents carried all the expectations of the upper-middle class while maintaining a cash flow that kept us in the tenuous lower-middle class.

The worst of both worlds.

Never mind that, Jess. Count your blessings.

I was alive. I was safe.

So I did everything in my power to make sure they never regretted their decision. Not even for a single minute. Unlike Chuck, I'd toed the line. One hundred percent.

As every year passed, the truth grew harder to ignore. My rational mind became increasingly aware that Catholicism was pure bullshit. Never once had I dared to voice my doubts to Mom or Grandad. To them, it was business as usual. 

My soul hounded me, though. I needed to talk to someone. Anyone. 

"I'll take this chance to go to Confession," I said to Mom. "If you don't mind."

"Go ahead, dear."

I left the pew and sat on one near the confessional booth. Father Bagley, a pastor in his late thirties or early forties, turned on the light to indicate he was ready for the first parishioner.  

Opening the squeaky door, I knelt on the pew on my side of the claustrophobic wooden cabinet. No bigger than a phone booth. A mesh divider stood between his section and mine, covered with a translucent black curtain that let in only a modicum of light. 

They designed the furniture to keep confessions confidential and anonymous, but Father Bagley would know who I was. We were the only blasted people in the church, after all.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," I said in the formulaic ritual. "It's been about three months since my last confession. Here are my sins."

The priest interrupted me. "Child, there's no need to be so formal unless you want to be. You're talking to God through me. Imagine it's like talking to a friend."

"Okay, Father." I sighed. "I'm losing my faith."

"What makes you say that?" he asked on the other side of the dark curtain—not to interrogate me like Mom would, but with a curious lilt.

"I come to church and do what's expected of me," I replied, "but it feels fake."

"Like you're going through the motions?"

"Exactly!" It surprised me that he understood what I meant. "I can rattle off all the prayers by heart, but it feels forced. God doesn't float around in space with a giant checklist making sure that I'm doing my homework, saying my prayers, and keeping clean thoughts."

The priest chuckled. "You're right. God doesn't float in space. He lives inside all of us."

"So why do I have to come to Church?" I asked, confused.

"It gives us a chance to take a break and gain some perspective," he replied. 

"Can't I do that by walking near the ocean?" I asked. "Or walking in a forest?"

"Many people lead hectic lives," he replied. "Mothers with small children. Busy professionals and teachers. Even young people going to school or college."

I gave a soft chuckle.

"It also gives us a sense of community and togetherness," he added.

Yeah, I don't care about that.

"Does God notice if we come here?" I asked. "Sometimes I wonder if He exists at all."

"The Holy Spirit lives inside each one of us," he replied. "That voice you hear inside you? That's Him. Taking time out for Him means we can listen as He guides us toward our path."

"How do I know what the right path is?" I asked. "It's scary to think that if you make the wrong choice, God will send you straight to hell. What is hell? It isn't like God says, Hey you've annoyed me for the last time! Off to the planet Mercury you go!"

Once again he chuckled. "Heaven and hell aren't places; they're states of being depending on what decisions you make. When you're at peace, that's heaven. When you're hurting, that's hell."

"If that's true, I'm already in hell."

"Why do you say that?"

"I lie all the time," I whispered. "I say that I abstain from sex for the glory of God."

He hummed but didn't speak.

"I do it for a different reason," I said.

"Why might that be?"

"I don't know," came my honest response. "I don't want sex. At all. Ever. Like, I never look at a person and think, Wow, I really want to have sex with them."

"Why do you think it's a lie to reject a physical relationship?" he asked.

"It isn't celibacy." I paused. "There's no struggle."

"Does there have to be?"

"I don't know," I replied honestly. "But everyone else wants these kinds of relationships."

"If there's no struggle, perhaps you've made the right choice," he said in a gentle tone.

"That's just it, Father." I heaved a heavy sigh. "There's no choice at all. It doesn't happen." Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. "Is there something wrong with me?"

"God doesn't have the same plans for all his children," he replied. "He calls many to fall in love, get married, and have children. But not all. Some believers serve him in other ways."

"What ways?"

"There are many paths," he said. "There is celibacy and abstinence. There is platonic love and friendship. Most people who remain single lead happy, fulfilled, and healthy lives."

I exhaled an unsteady breath. One I'd been holding my whole life.

"God loves us all," continued the priest. "He has created each of us, and we all have a purpose. You don't need to change who you are. If you wish to remain chaste, that's your choice."

I sighed. His words both helped me and confused me. How many times did I have to say it? 

I'm not making a choice! It simply doesn't happen!

"Thank you, Father."

Using all the formulaic prayers, the priest behind the curtain absolved me and told me I could return to the congregation.

"What should my penance be?" I asked.

"Say one Our Father and two Hail Marys," he replied. "Take the time to meditate about the path you want to take. Not the path you feel obliged to travel."

"It's difficult, Father."

"God will give you the strength you need."

"Thank you."

"God be with you, child."

As I sank into the pew with my grandparents, it occurred to me that Confession resembled a medieval form of psychology. Priests had taken on the role of counselors comforting pained souls struggling with life long before Freud had postulated his first theories on the human mind.

Like the priest suggested, I meditated on my path. What I wanted out of life.

Yeah, I had my doubts about Catholicism. Lots of them. I wasn't a fool.

If I'd lost my faith, why the hell did I decide to sit on this hard-ass pew? Why did I call myself a Catholic?

It might have worked as a crutch. Or a means to an end. Mostly, it served as a fantastic excuse to avoid my true identity, the one I hid from everyone. Including myself.

Why did I spew doctrine in order to justify my own choices—no, my own innate preferences—regarding my sexuality?

One thing I knew for certain: I could never tell Mom my thoughts. That I'd lost my faith. That my abstinence didn't come from the Church's teachings. That I had no desire to date, marry, or have children because why the hell would anyone want to do that?

It would break her heart like Chuck did, and I couldn't do that.

Not after all she'd sacrificed for me.

No. Freaking. Way.

"Jess, you'd better go back to the vestibule and prepare your reading," said Mom.

Her concerned tone made me worry, my heart fluttering with anxiety.

I rose, my skirt clinging to my legs, and walked to the little preparation area in the back of the church. I practiced the passage once more under my breath for good measure.

Time to pretend. Again.

As I paraded up the aisle in the opening procession, my gaze swept over the congregation.

I found him.

Bryan Delacourt. Together with his parents.

Oh, boy! My Religion teacher is here.

My heart thudded against my ribs as I passed them. Time seemed to move in slow motion as the priest opened the prayers. I was sweating. Almost panicked.

Do it for the glory of God.

But do you, Jess? Do you really?

Or do you do it for your glory?

For your family's glory?

Who even are you?

Good question.

I don't really know who I am. What I am. Or why I feel this way.

It was time.

Standing as tall as my squat frame would allow, I approached the podium. Ramrod straight. Pausing for a moment until silence fell, I began to speak. The shy, quiet girl slipped away to reveal a confident woman who could face her fellow human beings with boldness and courage.

Perfect. Just like Mom and I had practiced.

Hiding behind the wooden podium as my nerves shook on the inside, I finished without a hitch. My grandparents beamed as I performed my verbal dance of elocution. With an inner sigh of relief, I turned and walked back to my station, my duty fulfilled.

There's your answer, Jess. My conscience burned inside. It's not for the glory of God.

None of it is.

After mass the truth became even clearer as parishioners approached me and told me how lovely it was that such a nice young lady could read so beautifully from scripture. What a good girl I was. How I was a shining example for other people my age.

And blah, blah, BLAH...

Then came Mrs. Delacourt, the Italian-American matriarch. Did she truly love it that much? Or did she feel a sense of obligation to praise her Religion student no matter what? 

Did it matter?

Bryan had already walked away, leaning against the back corner of the church and gazing in my direction. Our eyes locked. He didn't look away until his girlfriend Sarah approached him in her Sunday best and gave him a warm hug before leading him away.

"Bryan's a good kid," said Mrs. Delacourt to Mom. "With most teens you have to drag them to church. But he wants to go. As long as it's after breakfast and he can sleep in, that is."

They shared a good laugh.

It wouldn't be long before Mom told me—once again—that I needed to find a good man like Bryan. A God-fearing man who respected the Church, someone with my morals and values. 

A family man.

I'd never told Mom he asked me out in eighth grade. Maybe then she would have thought differently about him.

In those final fifteen minutes, swarmed with stifling compliments among the congregation, I didn't know how to feel. Their compliments filled an endless void deep inside me, one as dark as Eric's eyes, making me warm and happy inside.

But it never lasted, and the cold would always return.