“I knew it,” she shouted. “I told y’all that woman is cursed.”
Nyla’s heart dropped.
Terrence didn’t correct her. He didn’t defend Nyla.
He just said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, Mama.”
As if Nyla were a broken appliance.
That evening, Terrence’s cousin showed up.
Her name was Kesha Grant, and she loved gossip the way some people loved oxygen. Always smiling, always pretending to help, always spreading poison.
She walked into Nyla’s house like she owned it and sighed dramatically.
“Oh, Nyla,” Kesha said, “I heard. That’s so sad.”
Nyla nodded, eyes puffy.
Kesha leaned closer and dropped her real message like a needle.
“But you know, people been saying it’s because of your weight. Like your body can’t hold nothing.”
Nyla’s face tightened. “Why would you say that?” she whispered.
Kesha shrugged. “I’m just telling you what folks saying.”
And just like that, the rumor took shape—not as a possibility, but as a conclusion.
The next Sunday, Terrence still dragged Nyla to church. Not for comfort. For performance.
After service, women surrounded Nyla—but not with hugs. With judgment.
One older lady shook her head. “Baby, you need deliverance.”
