"Sometimes, the people we least expect are the ones who quietly stand for us when the world turns away."
I stayed peacefully at St. Andrews. The outside world no longer called to me; I had made my choice — I was now married to the Church, and in that sacred bond, I found peace.
One grey morning, I travelled across the countryside to visit Sister Sarah at St. Mary's. The old abbey stood just as I remembered it — stone walls covered in climbing ivy, bell towers ringing the quiet rhythm of devotion. A place where my story had once been bruised, and yet, somehow, healed.
Sister Sarah stood at the doorway, thinner now, her eyes deeper with age but warm as ever. When she saw me in the white veil of a consecrated nun, she burst into tears.
"Who said my daughter would leave Christ?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
I wrapped her in a gentle hug.
She didn't need to say more. She alone was joy enough. In her arms, I remembered what grace felt like. She had never stopped praying for me.
Inside St. Mary's chapel, the scent of beeswax and quiet hymns lingered. There, standing by the altar, was Juliet.
She, too, had become a nun.
When she saw me, she stepped forward, bowed her head, and said with a voice stripped of pride, "Sister Salma."
Our eyes met. There was no anger. Only a long, silent knowing.
Then, with a trembling voice, she said, "In the name of the Lord who created the seven heavens, please find a place in your heart to forgive me."
Without hesitation, I replied, "Sister in Christ, I forgave you long before you left St. Mary's."
Her tears began to fall.
I don't know what moved her so deeply, but something in her spirit softened. She looked at me with eyes full of humility and said, "Take me as a friend, Salma. I want to make amends for my mistakes."
I didn't expect that. I stood still, surprised by her sincerity.
She gave a half-smile and whispered, "It's alright if you're puzzled. But only a friend waves at an enemy."
I blinked, and the memory returned — the day I was sent out of my mother's home. The shame, the silence, the shadows. And in the distance… a small wave from someone I didn't think would ever look my way again.
"She saw me that day," I thought. And that was the reason.
"I came back here," she continued softly, "just to see you, Salma. Because you are a friend."
I embraced her, not as a rival or a woman I once distrusted, but as a sister — a sister in Christ.
Who would have thought?
From hurt grew healing. From strangers grew sisterhood. From betrayal, a bond.
Juliet remained at St. Mary's, dedicating her time to help Sister Sarah care for the orphans and manage the gardens. As for me, I returned to St. Andrews, where I donated in quiet for the children who had no homes, no names, and no one to pray for them. I asked nothing in return — not even their thanks.
We both chose our places. One stayed. One gave. And both were whole.