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For more than a decade, Sundays in our house were untouchable. Not because of religion, tradition, or moral discipline, but because they belonged to us. Pancakes piled high, cartoons humming softly in the background, our daughter sprawled across the living room rug in pajamas long past noon. It was the one day we didn’t rush, didn’t perform, didn’t pretend. It was ours.
That’s why, the moment my husband announced one morning that we should start going to church every weekend, I assumed it was a joke.
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