📖 Texto da História
I remember the reason I left that tiny sect the way you remember a song that keeps looping; at first it was whisper-soft, then it became a drum in my chest. We gathered in the backyard, a circle of folding chairs and a cracked ceramic pitcher sweating lemonade in the July heat. Someone told a story, someone else clutched a rosary like a lifeline, and I kept watching the pitcher—how ordinary and honest it felt compared to the strict rules and sacred rhetoric that had built up around us. There was this moment when a child reached for the rim, dripping juice down their elbow, perfectly indifferent to doctrine, and I understood that faith could be simple, messy, shared. That made the reason obvious: I wanted a life where belief didn't demand silence or submission, where questions were allowed at the table. Leaving wasn't a dramatic exit; it was like setting the pitcher down gently and letting the conversation change.