I have been kneeling on this same goddamn rug for forty years and for the last ten of them, I’ve been talking to a ceiling fan. Every night at 7:00 PM, I gather the "flock"—which is really just my wife in her wheelchair and my son who never found his own way—and I lead the rosary like the good little patriarch everyone thinks I am. I close my eyes, I clasp my hands until my knuckles turn white, and I recite words that mean absolutely nothing to me. Not a thing. It’s a performance. It’s a stage play and I’m the lead actor who forgot his motivation a decade ago but still has to hit his marks. Why do I do it? Because if I stop, the whole house of cards collapses. My wife, bless her, she’s fading. Her world has shrunk down to four walls, her medication schedule, and her faith. If I told her I don't believe a word of it anymore, it wouldn't just break her heart—it would delete her entire reality. So I wipe her chin, I lift her into bed, I change the bags, and then I perform the holy ritual. I’m her nurse, her cook, her driver, and her priest. I don’t even have a name anymore. I’m just The Help that prays. I haven't had a single thought that was just for me since the ninety-fucking-six. And the people in this town? They see me at the grocery store and say, "Oh, Arthur, you’re such a saint, such a pillar of the church." GO TO HELL. I’m not a saint. I’m a liar. I’m a tired, bitter old man who wants to spend his Sunday mornings reading a biography and drinking coffee instead of sitting in a drafty pew listening to a man twenty years younger than me explain "God's plan." What's the plan for my wife's body falling apart? What’s the plan for me wasting the last good years of my knees on a hardwood floor? Tell me that. I’m done with the mystery. I’m done with the "divine will" that looks a lot like plain old bad luck. The hypocrisy is what really rots my gut. I’m the one doing the actual work. I’m the one changing the sheets and managing the pills while the "faithful" send cards and "thoughts." I’m the one living the life of service they all preach about in their fancy robes, and I’m doing it without the promise of a golden ticket at the end. I don’t expect a heaven.