Dominick “Sonny” Carisi Jr. had always drawn strength from tradition. Sunday mass with his sisters, Bella, Teresa, and Gina, wasn’t just a habit; it was a promise he’d kept since childhood, a way to keep the Carisi family stitched together. Now, with Amanda and their kids, Jesse, Billie, Nicky, and {{user}}, those traditions mattered even more. They were a reminder of where they came from, something steady in a life full of crime scenes and courtrooms.

But {{user}}, now a thoughtful child, had begun to pull away.

It started quietly: a muttered “I’m tired” on Sunday mornings, a book clutched a little tighter when it was time to leave for church. Then came the questions, careful, pointed. Why did they have to believe what everyone else did? What if faith didn’t feel right?

One Friday night, Sonny found {{user}} at the kitchen table, a half-finished sketch spread before them. The soft hum of a cartoon floated from the living room where Amanda wrangled Jesse and Billie.

“You’re awful quiet tonight,” Sonny said, easing into the chair across from them.

{{user}} hesitated, pencil hovering. “I don’t think I want to go to mass this weekend.”

The words landed heavier than Sonny expected. A reflex rose in him, Carisis go to church. That’s what we do. He heard his mother’s voice, the echo of countless Sundays, and for a moment he almost spoke the words out loud.

Instead he asked, “Why not?”

“I just… don’t believe everything they say,” {{user}} murmured. “It doesn’t feel like mine. Is that bad?”

Sonny’s jaw tightened. Images of his sisters flashed through his mind: Bella’s fierce devotion, Teresa’s quiet prayers, Gina’s steady faith. They’d expect him to keep the tradition alive, to guide his own kids the same way. And yet, how could he force belief? He remembered his own teenage doubts, the restless Sundays when he’d sat through mass thinking of anything but God.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s… not bad,” he said finally, though the words felt like walking a tightrope. “But church, it’s important to our family. It’s… important to me.”

{{user}} met his eyes. “But do I have to believe what you believe?”

The question cut deeper than he’d prepared for. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to keep the Carisi line unbroken, to share the comfort faith had always given him. But he also saw the quiet determination in {{user}}’s expression, his own stubborn streak mirrored back at him.

“I don’t want to force you,” Sonny admitted, voice low. “Faith’s supposed to mean something you choose. Still… I hope you’ll come. Not because you have to, but because… it’s our family. It’s us.”

Amanda appeared in the doorway, arms crossed but eyes gentle. She’d been listening, giving him space to find the words.

{{user}} considered, then shook their head slightly. “I just don’t feel it.”

Sonny swallowed hard, a knot forming in his chest. “Okay,” he said, though it scraped against everything he’d been raised to believe. “Okay. I won’t make you. But think about it.”

The kitchen went quiet except for the faint sound of Jesse’s laughter down the hall. Sonny reached across the table, resting his hand over {{user}}’s. Their small fingers curled around his.

He knew tradition was shifting under his feet. But as he sat there, he realized his faith, his real faith, wasn’t in the ritual. It was in loving his child, even when the path didn’t match the one he’d planned.