Let me begin with a quiet tragedy I’ve noticed in your time: the modern appetite for salvation without proximity. There’s a rising class of the righteous who speak ceaselessly of justice for peoples they’ve never met, in lands they’ve never walked, through headlines they barely understand.
They dream of repairing the world, while their own corners of it crumble—like the shell of a once-grand auditorium, now cracked, graffitied, and echoing with empty slogans. Their faith is loud, their vision panoramic, but their steps never lead home. The more self-righteous they become, the grander the cause they take on—until eventually, they are so obsessed with saving strangers that they make enemies of the familiar.
They no longer want friends. They want troops. Or better—drones.
So focused are they on the intangible that the tangible—their mothers, fathers, siblings, the smell of Sunday waffles—become background noise. And when it all caves in, they realize the cause they most forgot to tend to was the salvation of their own souls.
Larissa’s mother knocked twice before opening the door without waiting for permission.
'Up,' she said.
Larissa groaned from under her comforter. 'What time is it?'
'Almost eleven. You need to be presentable. Brunch is in thirty.'
'I didn’t agree to brunch.'
'It’s not a negotiation. We got family coming over. And church folks. Now up.'
The door shut before she could protest further. Larissa rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, blinking the night out of her eyes. She’d fallen asleep halfway through an Instagram Live about ecofeminism. Her phone, still warm, was tangled in her sheets.
Downstairs, the smell of maple, sizzling bacon, and over-performed hospitality crept under her door. Gospel music played too loud for her liking. It always did when her mom was performing—grinning too wide, laughing a little too loud, doing that dance where politeness becomes theater for church company she only half-liked.
Larissa finally got up, pulled on a cropped white tank top, the kind that showed her midriff and her small sun tattoo. She matched it with high-cut gym shorts. No bra. No shame. Her hair was undone but not uncared for—an intentional mess, like she belonged to a cooler world.
When she walked into the dining room, the table was already full: deviled eggs, shrimp and grits, fruit salad, and polite tension.
Her mother looked up first, eyes pausing on the shorts. Then the tank top. Then the hair.
Her father cleared his throat. 'Morning, honey.'
Two older women from the church sat near the end of the table, dressed like Easter never ended. One of them whispered, not subtly.
One of the older women cleared her throat and smiled nervously. 'We were just talking about collecting donations for the youth congregation’s trip to Memphis. There's a gospel concert there in August. Real uplifting event. Lot of spirit. We thought it’d be good for the young folks to experience it.'
The other nodded quickly, eager to support the deflection. 'Yes, and Sister May said she might even match what’s raised. It could be a real blessing.'
Larissa, still scrolling, slowly looked up. First at her mother. Then at the two women. She smiled—but not the warm kind. The kind that comes just before something gets burned down.
'Y’all wanna fund a trip to Memphis but don’t wanna fund water access on tribal land?' she asked, her voice bright with sarcasm. 'Got it. Spiritual hydration before physical, huh?'
Larissa sat and scrolled her phone, legs crossed. 'Y’all know Donald Trump is building pipelines straight from Alaska to Colorado, cutting straight through Native land and gutting their resources. How does your God feel about that?'
Her aunt coughed into her napkin.
Her mom said, 'Larissa, can we not this afternoon.'
Her father tried to smooth it over. 'Maybe... maybe let’s keep the table light today, huh?'
Larissa looked up. 'Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Indigenous genocide was too heavy for you holy folks.'
Silence.
Her mom narrowed her eyes. 'You know better than to make scenes, especially when Reverend Thomas is present.'
Larissa glanced over at Reverend Thomas, who offered her a strained smile—the kind that tried to shrink into itself before a storm. He was the sort of man who was bold only when the room agreed with him, and who looked like a rabbit among wolves at the first sign of real confrontation. All he could do was hold that smile, trembling at the edges, like it might protect him from being dragged into the fire.
'What scene?' Larissa asked. 'Y’all invited me, I showed up, and suddenly I’m the problem because I didn’t code-switch for you phonies?'
Her father put his fork down. 'Baby. Can you please just—'
She stood up. 'No, actually. I can’t. I can’t unlearn what I’ve come to understand just because it makes you uncomfortable. You want me quiet, dressed up, agreeable—for what? So these people can pretend they raised a daughter who still fits their script? No. Not today.'
She stood straighter, shot one final glare at her mother, then turned on her heel. The chair scraped sharply against the tile. Her steps were loud. Intentional. The slam of the front door followed like a drumbeat—followed, of course, by a sharp chorus of gasps that echoed through the dining room like an audience pretending to be shocked.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Darius: Wyd?
She rolled her eyes, half-laughed, and texted back: Saving the world. U?
