On Sunday, a week later, a man at church asked me to dinner. I said

no. It happened a second time a few days later with a different man.
Again I said no. I couldn’t say yes. I didn’t want either of them
anywhere near me.

Word reached the bishop that there was a woman in his flock who
was set against marriage. His assistant approached me after the
Sunday service and said I was wanted in the bishop’s office.

My wrist was still tender when I shook the bishop’s hand. He was a
middle-aged man with a round face and dark, neatly parted hair. His
voice was soft like satin. He seemed to know me before I even opened
my mouth. (In a way he did; Robin had told him plenty.) He said I
should enroll in the university counseling service so that one day I
might enjoy an eternal marriage to a righteous man.

He talked and I sat, wordless as a brick.
He asked about my family. I didn’t answer. I had already betrayed
them by failing to love them as I should; the least I could do was stay
silent.

“Marriage is God’s plan,” the bishop said, then he stood. The
meeting was over. He asked me to return the following Sunday. I said I
would, but knew I wouldn’t.

My body felt heavy as I walked to my apartment. All my life I had
been taught that marriage was God’s will, that to refuse it was a kind of
sin. I was in defiance of God. And yet, I didn’t want to be. I wanted
children, my own family, but even as I longed for it I knew I would
never have it. I was not capable. I could not be near any man without
despising myself.