Mia.
One thing I absolutely despise about these Saturday church trips with Grandma? She refuses anything faster than her own two feet.
No cab, no rideshare, not even the bus if it means spending a single extra coin.
“The Lord gave us legs for a reason,” she’ll say, like it’s profound wisdom instead of torture.
I’d much rather go alone—slip out quietly, take a quick taxi straight to the parish, maybe even arrive early enough to catch Thorne before the crowd descends.
But no. Trying to suggest a cab would only unleash a full sermon on frugality, wasteful youth, and how money doesn’t grow on trees.
So here we were, trudging along the sidewalk under the late-morning sun, baskets swinging between us, my sundress sticking to my back already.
My calves burned. Every step sent a dull ac
