Chapter 1

Mom and Dad parked their Gospel food truck on our campus under the guise of "serving the Lord and feeding His children."

I foolishly thought it meant they finally wanted to be close to me.

On the first day of Welcome Week, Mom texted me:

[Abbie, come to the diner and pick up lunch for you and Hannah. She’s under the weather, take it to her dorm.]

I arrived on time. I squeezed through the crowded cafeteria, picked up the two styrofoam boxes from the counter, and gave them a grateful smile.

"Thank you for your hard work, Mom, Dad. I'll go take this to Hannah now."

I turned to leave, but a voice stopped me dead in my tracks.

"Abigail!" Mom's voice cut through the noise. "Where is the money? Thou shalt not steal, remember?"

I stood completely paralyzed.

She wanted me to pay for the food she cooked for her own daughters?

No... looking at her glaring eyes, I instantly realized. She wasn't charging Hannah. She was only charging me.

In the suffocating heat of the Southern summer, my blood ran instantly cold. 

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"Pay?" I stammered. My fingers clamped down on the edges of the styrofoam boxes. "I... I thought family eats here for free. At least for today."

Students in line behind me shifted impatiently. I didn't have a single dollar on me. Before coming to campus, Mom and Dad paid my tuition directly to the university. "If you need anything, provide a valid reason and ask", Dad had told me.

But just yesterday, when I asked for two dollars to buy a sweet tea, Mom slapped my hand away like I was a thief. 

"Indulging the desires of the flesh is a sin, Abigail. Tap water is what a godly woman drinks. Don't be a glutton."

Now, standing in front of their brightly painted Gospel Diner truck parked inside the campus open-air pavilion, my pockets were completely empty. 

Mom didn't answer me. She simply turned her back, cheerfully scooping creamy mac and cheese onto a plate for a guy wearing a frat shirt. 

"Jesus loves you, sweetie," she beamed at him, handing over the food. "Have a blessed semester!"

I stood there like an idiot in the middle of the lunch rush. The heat radiating from the truck’s fryers made my head spin. I wanted nothing more than to drop the food and hide, but my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Hannah. 

"Where is my food, Abbie? My cramps are killing me. Hurry up."

If I didn't bring my sister her lunch, I'd be the one getting a lecture tonight about lacking sisterly love. 

"Mom," I whispered. Nothing.

I clutched the boxes tighter, my knuckles turning stark white. "Can I just go?" I asked, raising my voice a fraction out of sheer panic.

Mom paused. Slowly, she turned around. The charitable smile she just gave the frat boy vanished, replaced by a cold smirk. 

"Aren’t you supposed to be too depressed to speak in public?" she challenged, her voice effortlessly cutting through the cafeteria noise. "Look at you, raising your voice just fine."

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. She’s doing it again.

Another one of her twisted exposure therapies. Whenever my depression or social anxiety flared up, she claimed it was just Satan trying to make me useless to the church. Her signature cure was forced public humiliation, aimed at "breaking my sinful pride."

"Please," I choked out, dropping my gaze to the metal counter. "People are looking."

"Let them look!" Mom clapped her hands together loudly. She leaned halfway out the service window, projecting her voice across the crowded dining hall. "Come gather, brothers and sisters! We’ve got a testimony today!"

My breath hitched. Oh God, no.

Students eating at the nearby picnic tables stopped talking. A few church parents who were on campus helping freshmen move in wandered over. Within seconds, a tight circle formed around the truck. Whispers rippled through the Welcome Week crowd.

"Nothing in the Lord’s creation is free," Mom preached to the onlookers. She pointed a pair of tongs directly at my face. "My eldest daughter here thinks she can just take the fruits of our labor without offering anything in return. She wants to freeload. But the Bible says we reap what we sow. You pay with love, not dollars."

Dad stepped up beside her from the grill station. He wiped down his hands with a towel, his face set in stone. He wore his deacon expression—the stern, unwavering look that meant absolute obedience was strictly required. 

"Your little sister already paid her share," Dad rumbled in his deep voice. "She kissed both of us this morning, out of love and absolute gratitude. Hannah knows how to honor her mother and father."

I let out a tiny, shaking breath. A kiss. That was all? Usually, they made me scrub the church baseboards or confess fake sins in front of the entire youth group. If it was just a kiss on the cheek, I could do that. I could swallow the bile in my throat, kiss them, and escape.

I took a step toward the window, leaning in. 

Mom held up a hand, stopping me inches from her face. 

"Oh, no," Mom said softly. "You don’t have to kiss us."

I froze.

"Your heart is too hardened for a simple kiss to melt it," she announced to the crowd, putting a tragic hand over her heart. Then she looked dead at me. "You need to sing. Sing My Mommy Is the Best."

Silence fell over the immediate crowd. A few students exchanged confused, uncomfortable glances. Some snickered. 

I was a nineteen-year-old math major, standing in the middle of my college campus on my first week, surrounded by people I had to go to class with tomorrow.

"Sing it loud," Mom ordered. "So everyone in this dining hall can hear your gratitude. Let the Lord hear you conquer your rebellious pride."

"Mom, please," I mouthed. I couldn't even make a sound. The edges of my vision were blurring. The roaring in my ears drowned out the cafeteria music. 

"We are waiting, Abigail." Dad crossed his heavy arms. "Do not disrespect your mother in front of these good people. Sing."

My lungs burned. The familiar, suffocating weight of my depression slammed into my chest.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I couldn't stand being in my own skin for one second longer.

I looked down at the styrofoam boxes. The heavy, warm weight of the food meant for my golden-child sister. The sister who was probably resting comfortably in her air-conditioned dorm, waiting for me to act like her delivery dog. 

My cramping fingers slowly relaxed. I placed the two boxes gently onto the metal counter. 

"I'm not hungry anymore," I said.

I didn't wait for her to react. I just turned away. I needed to get out. I needed a dark space, anywhere away from the hundreds of eyes drilling into my back.

A hand clamped down on my wrist like a steel vice. 

It was Mom. She bolted out the side door of the truck.

"Let go," I whimpered instinctively. 

She yanked me so hard I almost crashed into her.

"You’re not leaving this dining hall," Mom hissed, spelling out every single syllable through her teeth, "until you sing."