The crisis came in the form of a visitation. Bishop Moretti was a man of old-world sensibilities and an eye for detail. He didn't suspect an affair—not yet—but he suspected a decline in my "spiritual vigor."
"You seem distracted, Benedict," Moretti said, his voice like dry parchment as we walked through the cathedral gardens. "Your sermons have lost their edge. There is a softness in your eyes that concerns me. A man of your position must be a pillar of stone, not a reed in the wind."
"I am merely reflecting on the complexities of the human condition, Your Excellency," I replied, my voice devoid of emotion.
"Complexity is the gateway to compromise," Moretti warned. "Be careful that you are not seeking comfort in places where only discipline should reside."
The warning felt like a physi
