Pastor asked, “Do you, Gladys, take Roy to be your husband?”
A lump caught in Gladys’ throat. I do, she thought but couldn’t verbalize.
“Will you?” Pastor asked again with a smile.
Gladys had known that cat grin since she was knee-high to the altar. It always came with a request like: can you tithe a little more this Sunday or can you drive Sister Rose to the doctor. Gladys always gave and always said yes.
She looked at Roy, Pastor’s son, and saw the same grin. He wore Pastor’s Sunday suit.
“No,” she answered. Gladys was no longer taking requests.