When God Opens a Door, But You Keep Knocking on the Wrong One

Rebecca lay flat on the hardwood floor of her Brooklyn brownstone, arms stretched out like she had just been slain in the spirit.

Four years. Four whole years. And for what? A souvenir in the form of a permanent scar on her leg? Chileeee… we really did all that for a man who don’t even own a bed frame?

Her eyes were nearly glued shut from last night’s ugly cry, the kind that leaves your soul feeling like it just ran ten miles in bad sneakers. She sighed, grabbed her phone off the floor, and called the one person who would listen without hitting her with too much “I told you so.”

“Mama,” she croaked.

“Who dead?” her mother answered on the first ring.

Rebecca rolled her eyes. Caribbean mothers and their soft touch. “Nobody, Ma. I’m thinking about moving to Phoenix.”

Silence. A deep sigh. Then, as if Rebecca had just told her she was picking up oat milk from the store, her mother said, “A’right. When?”

That was it. No sermon, no dramatics. Just vibes. At this point, her mother was used to her impromptu life choices—Rebecca had spent her twenties treating major decisions like limited-time sales.

But this time was different. This wasn’t about chasing a new adventure. This was about running—escaping the version of herself that kept choosing struggle love like it was a rite of passage.

And yet…

Before she knew it, she was dialing his number.

Andre.

The same man who had turned her into an honorary detective, cross-referencing timestamps and Instagram stories to catch him in lies. The same man who left his mark on her—literally.

He answered on the first ring. “Hey, Bec.”

His voice was smooth, like it hadn’t spent the last four years lying through its teeth.

“I’m leaving,” she said, clearing her throat. “Moving to Phoenix.”

A pause. Then, the nerve of him—he laughed. “For real this time?”

Rebecca glanced down at her leg, the bruise practically whispering, girl, don’t play yourself.

She could hear her mother’s voice in her head now. “God give you a bus ticket outta hell and you still standing at the stop? Foolishness.”

And yet, she hesitated.

God had given her an escape plan. A fresh start. But here she was, standing in the doorway, looking back.

Because the real question wasn’t could she leave.

It was—would she?