Mark’s hand was shaking so badly the brass clattered against the wood. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a gold-embossed envelope. It was pre-printed with their names: Mark and Diane.

I reached over and took the envelope right out of his fingers.

“I’ll take care of this,” I whispered.

I opened my purse. I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, dropped it into the brass plate, and passed the plate to the family behind us.

I put their gold tithing envelope into my purse next to my car keys.

“We need to go,” Mark whispered, his eyes darting toward the exits. “Brenda, please. Let’s go to the car.”

“No,” I said. “I want to hear the sermon. I hear the pastor here is wonderful.”

We sat through the entire forty-five-minute service. It was the longest forty-five minutes of my life.

Mark didn’t sing. He didn’t pray. He just stared at the wooden cross on the altar, sweat beaded on his forehead.

When the service ended, the congregation stood up to leave. Diane tried to slip away down the opposite aisle, but I stood up quickly and blocked her path.

“Diane,” I said. I held out my hand. “We never got to catch up at the county retirement party.”

She looked around frantically. Several other members of the church were watching us, smiling at what they thought was a warm greeting between friends.

“I think there has been a misunderstanding,” Diane whispered, her voice trembling.

“There’s no misunderstanding,” I said, loud enough for the couple behind us to turn their heads. “My husband has been tithing our retirement savings with you for eight years.

I just wanted to see what kind of church costs a hundred and forty thousand dollars of my mother’s nursing care.”

The older couple behind us stopped walking. The woman’s jaw dropped.

Diane’s face went from pale to a deep, ugly red. She turned around and practically ran out the side door of the church.

Mark was standing behind me, his head bowed. He looked small. He looked like an old man who had finally run out of lies.

“Brenda,” he said. “Please.”

“I’ll see you at the house,” I told him.

I walked out of the church, down the stone steps, and back to my Buick. The drive home was quiet. I didn’t turn on the radio. I just watched the gray highway lanes pass under my wheels.

When I got home, Mark’s car was already in the driveway.

He was sitting at the kitchen table. He had his head in his hands.

The confrontation that followed wasn’t loud. There was no screaming. I didn’t throw things.

The worst part was his logic. He actually tried to explain it to me.

“Diane’s husband left her with nothing,” he said, looking up with red eyes. “She was going to lose her house. I was just helping her. The church was her community. She needed to feel like she was still part of something.”