THE MAID’S WHITE COAT | PART ONE
The parsonage glowed softly under the tender touch of early morning light.
Sunbeams slipped through cream curtains, spilling over the polished floor tiles and brushing against framed family photos on the wall.
The smell of toasted bread and steaming tea mingled with the distant hum of a ceiling fan.
From the study came Pastor Paul’s low voice, rehearsing his sermon—words of grace and compassion filling the air with quiet strength.
From the kitchen, Martha’s silhouette stiffened beside the counter. Her hand paused mid-stir, eyes flashing sharply toward the hallway.
Irritation tightened her brow as if the calm morning had offended her peace. Her breath deepened, ready to cut through the quiet.
Martha (irritated):
“Sarah! Did you wash my children’s uniforms yet? Or you’re still daydreaming again?”
“Sarah! Did you wash my children’s uniforms yet? Or you’re still daydreaming again?”
Her voice sliced the air like a blade. A metallic clatter broke the stillness—a tray trembled in nervous hands.
Sarah stumbled into view from the corridor, her shoulders drawn inward, apron damp at the edges. Her lips parted quickly, the words tumbling out before fear could catch them.
Sarah (quickly):
“Yes ma, I just finished ironing—”
“Yes ma, I just finished ironing—”
The unfinished sentence hung trembling between them. Martha’s eyes narrowed, her posture sharp as a knife’s edge.
The kitchen light reflected against her wrist watch as she crossed her arms, her authority filling the room like heat from an iron.
Martha (sternly):
“Don’t give me excuses. If you want to live under this roof, learn to work properly.”
“Don’t give me excuses. If you want to live under this roof, learn to work properly.”
Her words struck deep, unseen but heavy. At the dining table, Caleb froze mid-bite, his fork suspended in the air, while Joy’s small fingers stirred her cereal in slow circles, eyes lowered, lips pressed tight.
Then, as if a switch flipped within her, Martha’s expression softened. She brushed a crumb off the table and smiled tenderly at her children.
Sarah’s hands curled into her apron, her breath trembling through parted lips. The early sunlight caught her face, showing eyes shimmering with quiet endurance.
She turned away—each step measured and heavy—disappearing toward the laundry room, her heart whispering a prayer she dared not speak aloud.
The broom’s gentle rhythm soon filled the silence—a weary heartbeat echoing across tiled floors. From the study, Pastor Paul’s calm voice drifted again, a scripture dressed in morning air.
Pastor Paul (calmly):
“Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.”
“Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.”
The verse floated through the corridor, brushing Sarah’s spirit like a soft touch from above. She paused mid-sweep, fingers tightening on the broom handle.
A single tear gathered at the corner of her eye; she blinked it back quickly, afraid the house itself might witness her weakness.
She moved closer to the window. Fog clung faintly to the glass, blurring her reflection—a face half-lit by faith, half-faded by exhaustion.
Her lips parted slowly, breath trembling as though testing the weight of her own existence.
Sarah (quietly):
“Lord… do You see me too? Or am I just a shadow in this house?”
“Lord… do You see me too? Or am I just a shadow in this house?”
A hush followed. Then a tender breeze slipped through the cracked window, lifting a strand of her hair.
It brushed her cheek like an unseen hand. She closed her eyes, letting the silence speak what words could not.
In the dining room, Martha straightened her shawl and hummed a hymn under her breath. Her face glowed with devotion. The aroma of breakfast lingered in the air.
Outside, birds trilled softly from the neem tree, their melody blending with the faint chime of the church bell.
Pastor Paul’s voice lifted again, steady, unaware, preaching mercy into the morning air.
Sarah folded the children’s uniforms with gentle precision, wiping her eyes between each press of cloth.
The broom leaned forgotten against the wall, yet her faith did not.
Deep within, a quiet whisper stirred—a divine reminder that her present pain was not her final story.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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