Nyla tried to speak, but the sob came first.
“Can… can you come get me?” she whispered.
Mon’nique’s voice changed immediately.
“Send me the address. Don’t move. I’m coming.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mon’nique’s old blue sedan pulled up like rescue itself.
Mon’nique jumped out, saw the suitcase, saw Nyla’s swollen eyes, and didn’t ask useless questions.
She just opened her arms.
Nyla collapsed into them.
“They threw me out,” Nyla cried. “Terrence. His mother. He brought another woman.”
Mon’nique held her tighter. “Enough,” she said. “You’re not staying one more second on this porch.”
Mon’nique drove Nyla across town to the one place she knew would be safe—her father’s house.
Her father was Reverend Curtis Ellis, a respected pastor in his early sixties, known for his deep voice, calm wisdom, and zero tolerance for cruelty hiding behind religion.
When he opened the door and saw Nyla in that condition, his face tightened.
He stepped aside without hesitation.
“Come in, daughter,” he said.
That one word—daughter—almost broke Nyla all over again.
Inside, the house smelled like warm tea and furniture polish. Quiet. Clean. Safe.
Reverend Curtis sat Nyla down at the table and listened while Mon’nique explained everything.
He did not interrupt. He did not judge.
But when Mon’nique finished, the old pastor’s jaw was set.
“Throwing out a grieving woman at night,” he said slowly, “and calling that righteousness? No. That is cruelty. Plain cruelty.”
Nyla looked down, ashamed. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered.
Reverend Curtis leaned forward.
“Then hear me clearly,” he said. “You are not a burden here. You are not cursed, and you are not the names they called you.”
Nyla’s tears started again, but these tears felt different.
Not humiliation.
