Choosing Honesty
Chapter 2 — Family Faith
Winter had a way of revealing things.
Bare branches stood exposed against gray skies. Footprints showed clearly in fresh snow. There was no hiding what had passed through.
Maeve O’Connell noticed this as she stood at the front door, helping Finn tug on his boots. Clara waited patiently behind him, her orange scarf wrapped carefully around her neck. The mirror by the door caught their reflection—three faces, fair and freckled, quietly steady.
Sundays were still new in this season of life.
Not because church itself was unfamiliar—but because she was.
Maeve was learning how to walk into familiar spaces without the person who had once stood beside her. Learning how to answer questions without rehearsing explanations. Learning how to be honest without reopening wounds.
Her marriage had ended after years of emotional and physical harm—things she once worked hard to hide. Leaving had not been dramatic. It had been slow, prayerful, and painful. But it had been necessary.
Now, she was learning how to raise her children alone—and truthfully.
“Mom,” Finn asked as she zipped his coat, “are we early?”
Maeve smiled. “A little.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I like it when it’s quiet.”
She paused, struck by the simple truth of it.
Quiet had become a gift.
Outside, the air was sharp and clean. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they walked toward the church. Maeve felt the familiar tightening in her chest—the quiet awareness that people would notice what was missing.
The easier path would be to smooth things over.
To let assumptions linger.
To allow people to believe she was still part of a happy, intact family.
To offer answers that sounded cheerful but said nothing at all.
Online, especially, it would be easy. A carefully framed photo. A warm caption. Proof that everything was fine.
But Maeve had learned—slowly and painfully—that pretending came at a cost.
At church, Clara and Finn quickly found other children. Maeve watched as they joined a familiar group near the edge of the yard. Among them were the Talanoa children—laughing easily, already deep in some shared game that didn’t require explanation.
Children, she had noticed, didn’t need backstories.
They accepted what was in front of them.
Inside, Maeve took her usual seat. After the service, as people stood and chatted, a woman she recognized from Bible study approached her. She was older—kind-eyed, unhurried.
“How are you really doing?” the woman asked softly.
Maeve felt the reflex rise—the instinct to keep things light, to say fine and move on.
Instead, she chose truth.
“It’s been hard,” she said quietly. “But I’m learning.”
The woman nodded—not surprised, not alarmed. Just present.
“If you ever want to talk,” she said gently, “I’m here. No pressure.” Then, after a pause, she added, “There’s a small group for women who are walking through new seasons. You’d be welcome—only if it feels right.”
Maeve hadn’t realized how tightly she was holding her breath until that moment.
No fixing.
No probing.
Just space.
That afternoon, Clara sat at the table coloring while Maeve prepared tea. The kettle hummed softly on the stove. Crayons rolled across the table as Clara worked quietly, her brow furrowed in thought.
After a moment, she looked up.
“Mom,” she asked, her voice hesitant, “what do I say when someone asks where my father is?”
Maeve’s hands stilled.
She pulled out a chair and sat across from her daughter, meeting her eyes. This was one of the questions she knew would come—one she had prayed over, one she wanted to answer with both truth and care.
“You can say,” Maeve replied gently, “that our family looks different now, and that you live with me.”
Clara considered this. “What if they ask more?”
Maeve reached across the table and rested her hand over Clara’s.
“You don’t owe anyone the whole story,” she said softly. “You can tell the truth without sharing everything. God cares about what’s true—not about making things look a certain way.”
Clara was quiet for a moment. “Even if the truth feels hard?”
“Yes,” Maeve said. “Especially then.”
That evening, after the children were asleep, Maeve sat by the window. Snow fell again, slower now, heavier. She thought about how easy it would be to keep rounding the edges of her story.
But she also thought about the woman at church. The quiet kindness that had followed honesty—not judgment, not distance, but invitation.
Scripture came to mind—words she had read before, but never lived so fully:
“Therefore, having put away falsehood, let each one of you speak the truth with his neighbor…”
— Ephesians 4:25
Truth, she was learning, wasn’t harsh.
It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t demand details.
Truth was light.
Not the blinding kind—but the kind that made a room safe to stand in.
As winter stretched on, something subtle shifted. Maeve noticed it in small moments. In the way Clara spoke plainly without fear. In Finn’s quiet confidence, he admitted mistakes. In the peace that came from not rehearsing answers.
Life wasn’t easier.
But it was clearer.
Jesus had lived this way Himself. He never shaped His words to preserve appearances. He spoke truth, even when it cost Him comfort and safety.
“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”
— John 8:32
Freedom, Maeve realized, wasn’t found in pretending to be a happy married family.
It was found in walking honestly—one conversation at a time.
And so, in that winter season, the O’Connell family chose truth. Not as a declaration. Not as an explanation.
But as a way of life.
This is Choosing Honesty, from The Family Faith Series by The Cardinal and Dove.
