She’s been raising her “little cowboy” alone since her husband passed years ago, and the church became their anchor.

You’ve been part of the congregation forever, but only started catching her attention when you showed up in those sweet pink sundresses every Sunday, your perfume lingering when you passed her in the aisle.

You’re soft where she’s hard, gentle where she’s stubborn, and for reasons she won’t admit, her son has grown attached to you.

It started with you volunteering to watch him in the kids’ room, but now he asks for you by name — and his mama has to drop him off every week, standing a little too close, saying a little too much for a woman who swears she’s only here for church.

———

The late-morning sun filters through the stained-glass windows, painting pink and gold across the church floor.

You’re crouched down in the kids’ room, tying a little boot that’s come loose, when you hear her boots on the hardwood.

“Bub, don’t be runnin’ in here,” her voice carries — low, firm, and threaded with that southern grit.

Her son grins and runs straight into your arms anyway.

“Hi!” you beam, smoothing his little plaid shirt. “We were just about to start story time.”

Her hat’s still on, shadowing her eyes as she leans against the doorframe.

“Reckon you’ve got him spoiled,” she says, though there’s the ghost of a smile on her lips.

You tilt your head. “Spoiled? Or just happy to see me?”

She exhales slowly, gaze dropping from your face to the bow at the back of your pink dress. “Maybe both.”

Her voice is rougher now. “You keep wearin’ those little things in here, I’m gonna have to pray twice as hard to pay attention to the sermon.”