“Pray for me to get over this flu.”

“Pray for my boyfriend to like me.”

“Pray for me to win the lottery.”

I didn’t mind them. It was my duty.      

My parents’ marriage began to fall apart when I was in middle school. Whether it was because of my father’s refusal to do manual labor like mow the lawn or shovel the driveway, or my mother’s obsession with work, money, and her boyfriend, my parents were headed for divorce. I held in my breath on days they didn’t scream, taunt, or fist-fight, wondering always, “For how long?” When the fights returned too soon, I would curse myself for even thinking of it. The thought alone must’ve triggered it. I should do a better job controlling my powers.

Aunts and uncles, they all insisted that I could mend the marriage. I had connections, they said. God would listen. In time, my father joined their urging. “Only you can steer your mother back to us. Only you because your sister is too young. Only you because Jesus always answers your prayers. Only you because it is your responsibility to keep this family together.” And so every morning, every afternoon, and every evening, I asked God to save my parents’ marriage. I made the sign of the cross when passing churches, and said grace before every meal. I did these things, not once, but three times just in case God missed the first two.

My mother resented my efforts. “Stop the propaganda! Don’t bring God into this!” she’d say. But I continued to pray anyway. Three, four, five, ten times a day. Eyes closed tighter and tighter. Hands clasped harder and harder. Lips moving faster and faster.

My aunts come straight at us with a mound of white linen in their arms. “Put it on,” one of them says. “Take the hood! And the headband, too — just in case.” She gives me the garments and ploughs on.