3
Amelia.
You never forget what holy water feels like, even as an adult. The chill, the weight, the way it seeps through thin cotton and clings to every inch of skin. I’d been baptized as a baby, but this was different. This was a spectacle.
I tried not to shiver as I stood at the edge of the baptismal pool, sunlight painting gold halos on the marble, my white dress clinging to my legs. My father’s voice rolled through the congregation, gentle and booming all at once, but I could barely hear him over the thud of my own heart.
I was supposed to look pure. Redeemed. I glanced at the pews—faces shining up at me, smiling, proud. None of them knew. Not my mother. Not my friends. Not even the little girl I used to be. And certainly not my father, whose hands held mine as I waded into the wat
