By evening, we were back at the house, exhausted and happy, before dark.
Then someone knocked on the door.
One of our new friends. A fifteen-year-old boy. Motorbike parked outside.
“Hey, what time are we meeting tomorrow?” he asked Amalia through the screen door.
Casual. Innocent. Two teenagers making plans.
My mother got up from her bed.
She walked to the door. Saw Amalia. Saw the boy.
Her face changed.
“Get out,” she said to Amalia.
We froze.
“What?” Amalia looked confused.
“Get. Out. Of. My. House.”
“But—”
“NOW!”
The boy, sensing danger, got on his motorbike and left.
Amalia stood there, stunned. “I didn’t do anything—”
“You brought the devil to this house,” my mother said, her voice cold and sharp. “You are not welcome here.”
“It’s dark outside! There’s nowhere to—”
“Leave.”
Amalia walked into the night.
I stood frozen, the burn on my leg pulsing with each heartbeat, paralyzed between fear of my mother and fear for Isa’s friend.
No streetlights. No paved road. Everything closed.
A fifteen-year-old girl. Alone. Three hours from home. No money. No phone. This was the early 1990s—no cell phones, no way to call for help.
As she disappeared into the darkness, she turned back and screamed:
“You say you pray to God, but you pray to the DEVIL!”
Her voice echoed, then faded.
We stood there—crying. Terrified for her. Ashamed of our mother. Powerless to stop it.
“Mom, she could get hurt—”
“She made her choice,” my mother said, and went back to bed.
This was normal.
My mother never allowed us to make mistakes.
She always blamed our friends. Even when we admitted fault. Even when there was evidence. Even when we begged her to see that we were the ones who’d messed up—
It was always the friend’s fault.
The bad influence.
The devil in disguise.
And once a friend was excommunicated, we were forbidden from seeing them again.
Ever.
And if we dared see them behind my mother’s back, the situation would only become worse.
Patty learned this the hard way when she was fifteen and her best friend got excommunicated.
Cecilia lived nearby—close enough to visit without raising suspicion. She became Patty’s escape valve from the divine kingdom drama we lived in.
Cecilia’s house was normal. Her family was normal. Patty could breathe there.
Until the day my mother saw Cecilia wearing a mini dress.
Normal for a seventeen-year-old in the 1990s.
Unforgivable in my mother’s eyes.
“You are not to see that girl again,” my mother told Patty.
“But she’s my best friend—”
“She dresses like a prostitute. You will not be corrupted.”
Patty tried to obey.
For a while.
But the isolation was unbearable. So she started sneaking out. Visiting Cecilia without my mother’s knowledge.
It worked for months.
Until it didn’t.
One afternoon, my mother discovered where Patty had gone.
She walked to Cecilia’s house.
Didn’t knock.
Just opened the door and walked in.
Patty was sitting on the couch, laughing with Cecilia. A normal moment. Two best friends being teenagers.
My mother grabbed Patty by the hair.
Yanked her to her feet.
Dragged her across the room.
Threw her onto the floor outside.
Cecilia screamed. Patty cried. The neighbors watched.