It was a Monday night in November, and the sky outside was the color of iron.
Ellie had just gotten home from her shift at the diner, the polyester uniform clinging to her legs with the damp of fryer grease and cold air. Her fingers were numb, her back ached, and all she wanted was to collapse into a hot shower and let the water beat out the ache of another too-long day.
The house was unusually quiet. Melanie had taken two of the kids to the ER with strep symptoms, and Anna was passed out on the couch, surrounded by a fort of laundry baskets. The baby was the only one awake, babbling softly to herself in a playpen.
Ellie dropped her keys on the counter and headed to the bedroom she used now that Dylan was gone. It still smelled faintly of him—sawdust and laundry detergent and wintergreen gum. She pulled off her sneakers and flopped onto the bed, reaching for her phone out of habit.
One missed call.
No voicemail.
Number blocked.
She narrowed her eyes.
Then it buzzed again.
UNKNOWN CALLER
Her heart stuttered.
She knew.
She knew.
Still, she answered.
"Hello?" she said, voice cautious.
A pause. Then a breath. Then the voice that made her throat close up:
"Ellie. It's Brother Gregson."
She closed her eyes. His tone was flat—carefully constructed. The way elders always sounded when they were about to deliver something they didn't want to own.
"I figured," she said.
Another pause. She could almost picture him sitting in the back room of the Kingdom Hall, books neatly stacked, eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. He'd given her Bible study talks when she was eleven. Warned her about the dangers of "worldly influences" when she was thirteen. Watched her get baptized at fifteen.
And now he was calling to undo it all.
"We've… spoken with your mother," he began. "And a few others from the congregation. There's been concern about your current circumstances."
Ellie sat up slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. "You mean because I left?"
"She shared that you're living outside of theocratic arrangement," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "That you're no longer attending meetings. That you've… entered into an inappropriate relationship."
Her throat burned.
It wasn't just about Dylan. It was about all of it—the cheerleading, the birthdays, the boys at school, the job, the choices. She could hear the judgment layered beneath every word, disguised as concern.
"You know how serious this is, Ellie," Gregson said.
"I know what you think it is," she snapped.
He didn't flinch. "We extended an invitation for a meeting. You didn't respond."
"I didn't need to," she said. "You've already made your decision. You just needed me to sit in a folding chair while you read the script."
"We wanted to hear your side," he replied, measured. "But your refusal to meet with the elders… that silence speaks for itself."
"You never wanted to hear my side," she whispered. "You wanted confession. You wanted shame."
Another pause. Then:
"Ellie, it is with deep sadness that I have to inform you: you will be disfellowshipped, effective immediately. The announcement will be made this Thursday."
There it was.
The death sentence.
Spoken like it was no more than a shift schedule.
Her vision blurred. Her throat tightened until it ached. But she didn't cry. Not yet. Not in front of him.
"So that's it?" she said. "You erase me? From all of it?"
"You chose this path, Ellie."
She barked out a short laugh. "No. I chose freedom. You're the one choosing exile."
"You're still welcome at meetings," he said. "You can sit in the back. In time, if you repent, the path to reinstatement remains open."
"I'm not interested in your forgiveness," she said, voice low, controlled. "I'm interested in living a life that's mine."
Silence.
"I hope you'll reconsider," Gregson said finally. "Your eternal future depends on it."
She stared out the window. Snow had begun to fall—fat, quiet flakes drifting down like ash.
"I'm not afraid of eternity anymore," she whispered. "But I am done living in fear of you."
He didn't answer that.
The line clicked.
The call ended.
The phone slid from her hand. She sat on the edge of the bed, legs numb, mind racing.
It wasn't like she didn't see this coming. But hearing it—feeling it—that was different. That was real.
She was gone now. Gone from their records, their smiles, their prayers. To them, she didn't just move out. She ceased to exist.
And she knew what came next. The whispers. The turned backs. The silence. The look her mother would give her if they passed in public—a look trained for years, like grief without permission to mourn.
She didn't even know if she should tell Dylan.
But of course she would.
Because it was part of her story now.
Later that night, Melanie returned from the hospital, looking exhausted and juggling a bottle of Pedialyte and a toddler with a fever. Ellie helped get the kids to bed, her body moving on autopilot. When the house finally quieted, she sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water and stared at her phone.
She typed a message.
ELLIE (9:42 PM):
The elders called me tonight. It's official. I'm being disfellowshipped.
Three dots. Then nothing. Then again—three dots.
DYLAN (9:43 PM):
El… I'm so sorry.
Are you okay?
She stared at the screen, then typed:
ELLIE:
Yeah. I mean… no. But yeah. I knew it was coming.
It still hurts.
It hurts worse than I thought it would.
DYLAN:
You don't have to go through it alone. Not anymore.
They can't erase you. Not from me.
She blinked fast, trying to stop the flood. But the tears came anyway. Not loud or violent—just soft, steady.
She whispered aloud, to no one, to the silence: "I'm still me."
And in that moment, it felt like enough.
Not redeemed. Not forgiven. But free.