I found out all about her. She had grown up in this village. Left in disgrace after being impregnated by an infidel. She returned with her gypsy lover– she flaunted him.
She was everything I hated. I denounced her from the pulpit. Predicted eternal hell for her offspring.
She said love was not a sin, hate was. She remained unrepentant; she continued to attend my church.
She asked for me before she died.
"Father", she confessed. "You are my first-born child."
She died. I have to go on living. How?
People who live in glass houses... should not throw stones.
Drabble(n) - an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length.