SCENE_01
The seat you still take
You're at your parents' table on a Sunday, the same chair you've sat in since you were seven, and the prayer starts before the food does. You mouth the words. Not because you believe them tonight, but because your mother's eyes are closed and your father's hand is warm in yours and stopping now would mean explaining, and explaining feels like handing them a bill for everything they gave up so this table could exist at all.
SCENE_02
The ledger you didn't ask to keep
Somewhere between the prayer and dessert you do the math you always do: the years they spent building this life around belief, the things they didn't buy so the church roof could get fixed, the friendships they kept and lost over it. You turn that math into a debt with your name at the top, so you keep mouthing words you don't mean, keep nodding at questions you'd answer differently alone, because the alternative feels like walking out on people who already paid.
SCENE_03
The math you got wrong
Their sacrifice was a choice they made for their own conviction, made before you could vote on it and not contingent on your agreement afterward. Your differently-shaped belief doesn't erase what that choice meant to them or unmake the roof, the friendships, the years. Tonight, alone, you write down one sentence that separates their choice from your obligation, not to send anywhere, just to read back to yourself the next time the prayer starts before you're ready.