Wyatt Hughes

At my fifty-first birthday dinner, my husband, the senior pastor of a megachurch, announced in front of our family that God had revealed to him the need to replace me as “First Lady” in order to revitalize the church’s brand. His choice was our young, beautiful worship leader. My son and daughter, the heirs apparent who treated our church like a family business, even led the applause. They thought I would let myself be held hostage by “God’s ministry.” They expected me to cry, to accept being pushed aside for the sake of this family’s dignity. But they didn’t know I had already died once before. I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. I simply took two documents from my clutch and, in front of everyone, signed my name to both. One was a divorce agreement. The other was my letter of resignation from every charitable foundation and community position I held through the church. They thought they were just upgrading a “First Lady.” They had no idea they had just pulled the life support from their entire religious empire. … I had been coordinating the final details for this so-called “birthday dinner” since six that morning. It wasn’t just a family gathering; it was a crucial stage for cultivating relationships with our church’s major donors. I personally confirmed every guest’s seat, ensuring those with allergies were kept away from nuts and that conservative legislators weren’t seated next to liberal tech founders. I even adjusted the Texas wildflowers the florist delivered, making sure their scent wouldn’t be strong enough to clash with the expensive Napa Valley Cabernet in the crystal glasses. I was so tired I could barely stand up straight. Meanwhile, my husband, Josiah—senior pastor of our church, the Cross of Light—was in his study, giving an interview to *Texas Monthly*. Through the door, I could hear his magnetic voice explaining his views on “the modern pastor.” He never bothered with these details. In his eyes, they were the invisible duties a “First Lady” was expected to perform. Our son, Caleb, was the first to arrive. He didn’t even glance at me before rushing into the study and excitedly placing a report in front of his father. “Dad, look at this! Seraphina’s Instagram live last week brought in over three thousand newly registered young believers. User retention is up twenty percent!” “Traffic conversion.” My son, a seminary graduate, was spouting the coldest corporate jargon. Before long, our daughter, Faith, arrived. She handed me a tablet. On the screen was Seraphina’s latest worship music video. She wore a white, off-the-shoulder gown, singing beneath a spotlight with tears glistening in her eyes. The whole production was as polished as a luxury car commercial. “Mother, I hope you’ll watch this,” Faith said in a brisk, businesslike tone. “You need to learn a more shareable style. Your image is too traditional.” I said nothing, just silently pushed the tablet away from my face. The dinner began, with the Bach I had chosen flowing through the living room. My children flanked their father, enthusiastically discussing how to “brand” the church and develop merch to turn it into a full-blown IP. “Our church is essentially a faith-based brand,” Caleb said, his voice brimming with confidence. “Dad is our core CEO, and Seraphina is our most dazzling brand ambassador.” There was no place for me in their bright, harmonious business plan. I was like an outdated piece of hardware, about to be rendered obsolete by a software upgrade. I quietly supervised the kitchen, making sure every Beef Wellington was a perfect medium-rare. Soon, the food was served. Caleb raised his glass first. “To you, Dad! Your visionary outlook is unmatched. You’ve charted an entirely new course for our family enterprise.” Faith also stood. “Dad, without your courage to rebrand, the church wouldn’t be where it is today.” She set down her glass and frowned at me. “Mother......