The Smile Across the Sea

Based on a true story.

The phone rang. A familiar number, 6000 miles away. The daughter hesitated before answering. She already knew how this conversation would go, but some part of her—perhaps the part that still carried the weight of hope—answered anyway.

"Hello?" she said.

The mother’s voice came through, coated in artificial warmth. "How are you?"

"I’m fine."

"And… what’s going on with your situation? Your relationship?"

A pause. A deep inhale. "It’s over."

Silence. Then, a smile—the kind of smile that could be heard even through the phone. A smile not of sympathy, not of concern, but of satisfaction. A quiet, breathy exhale of relief. As if her daughter’s hardship was proof that her own life choices weren’t as wrong as they seemed.

She was happy.

The daughter didn’t have to see her face to know it. She could hear it in the air between them.

"So… what are you going to do now?" the mother asked, an edge of amusement in her tone.

"I’ll see what happens. I might face homelessness, but that’s where I am right now."

Another pause. A moment where a mother’s instinct should have kicked in. But it never did. No concern, no offer of help, no words of comfort. Instead—silence. And in that silence was the unspoken confirmation: She liked this.

She liked the idea that her daughter was struggling. It meant she didn’t have to face her own mistakes.

This was the same woman who had gone into $60,000 of debt purchasing religious books for strangers. But for people who never asked for them. People who didn’t want them. People who actually needed financial assistance instead.

She called it an act of faith.

Meanwhile, her own daughter was left to fend for herself. Left to suffer while she preached to others about God's mercy and righteousness. Left to figure it all out alone while she spent her days reading holy books and telling anyone who would listen about her so-called "piety."

Faith? No.

This wasn’t faith. This was hypocrisy wrapped in a false sense of righteousness. This was performance, not belief.

She thought she was "spreading religion." But what was religion to her?

- Books? Stacked high, unopened, unread by those who received them.

- Words? Preached to strangers while ignoring the suffering of her own blood.

- Appearances? Maintaining the image of a “righteous woman”, even as she smiled at her daughter's downfall.

Faith was never meant to be a spectacle. God never asked for empty displays.

But for her, religion was a mirror. A place where she could stare at her own reflection and feel righteous, without ever having to face the truth.

And so, the daughter sat there, phone pressed to her ear, listening to the sound of her mother’s quiet, satisfied breath.

“I will call you later then” the mother finally said.

And then—without a word—she hung up.

Nothing left to say.