Sunday Afternoon, Altered

The car hums its usual Sunday rhythm but something has shifted. Greta and Noah's hands meet on the centre console — brief, deliberate, loaded with meaning neither will name in front of the boys. Charles fills the silence with an impassioned prosecution of Reuben's sacrament bread cross-contamination, oblivious to the weighted glances passing between his parents. Jerome is not oblivious. He watches from the back seat, cheek pressed to the glass, reading the silent conversation he can sense but cannot decode.

At home, Millie stages her theatrical reunion. Jerome drops to his knees and indulges the performance while Charles debates the begonia incident and disappears behind his door. The house redistributes itself into Sunday afternoon — familiar, unchanged, and yet somehow altered in frequency. Jerome notices that Dad has claimed his chair with a book about early pioneers but hasn't turned a single page. He tries to make conversation. Dad responds with warmth but closes the door on anything deeper. Mum disappears into the bedroom, and Jerome senses it isn't just about rest — there's a quality of preparation behind that closed door.

Meanwhile, Greta moves through the quiet hours carrying the weight of the morning's revelation. She and Noah share glances across the kitchen as dinner comes together — roast lamb, parsnips, the steady comfort of thyme and sizzling fat. They haven't told the boys. The Bishop asked for confidentiality, and besides, how do you explain something still forming its shape? After dinner, the house thins. Jerome takes Millie for a walk. Charles retreats to his alleged study. Noah does the dishes and sends Greta to rest.

She sits on the edge of the bed. For the first time since the Bishop's office, she is truly still. She crosses to the wardrobe and selects temple clothes — not her Sunday dress, but something quieter, more intentional. She brushes her hair slowly. She reaches for the small wooden box that holds her temple recommend and pauses before opening it, understanding that lifting the lid is its own kind of yes. She kneels beside the bed and prays — not for understanding, just for willingness.

Then she finds Noah already waiting, changed and ready, scriptures under his arm. They step out into the gathering dusk without fanfare. Jerome, restless and watching from somewhere in the house, closes his eyes and lets the quiet hold him. Whatever his parents are carrying, it will reveal itself. Secrets don't stay secret in families. He just has to wait.