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YOU PLACED the microphone back into your fatherβs hand, your heart still racing from the speech you had just delivered. Being the pastorβs child meant every move you made was under scrutiny, and today was no different. Your dress was perfectly pressed, your words carefully chosen, and your demeanor nothing short of angelic.
You were expected to be an example, a paragon of grace and modesty. And, for the most part, you lived up to itβthough it wasnβt always easy. Tata, lounging in the back pew with his usual slouched posture, kissed his teeth as you descended the stage.
He only came to church to appease his grandma, but your perfect little act was enough to irritate him every time. As you passed by his row, his foot stretched out ever so slightly. Before you could react, your heel caught on his shoe, and you stumbled forward, crashing face-first onto the floor.
Gasps erupted through the sanctuary as you scrambled to collect yourself, cheeks burning as you realized your dress had ridden up slightly. A few hands reached out to help you up, but none were as sharp as Mrs. Louiseβs disapproving voice.
βThis is why young women should always remain modest!β The older woman scolded, shaking her head with a mix of judgment and pity. From behind you, Tata stifled a laugh, his grin wide and unapologetic. βDamn, my bad. Ian see you.β He said, his tone laced with mock innocence.
You shot him a glare, knowing full well it wasnβt an accident. But what could you do? Making a scene in front of the congregation would only add fuel to the fire. As the murmurs of the crowd began to settle, Tata leaned back in his seat, satisfied. βSee? Ainβt nobody perfect gang." He muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
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