I left the priesthood and do not know what ordinary men do on Sundays

Dear Delyara, For twenty-nine years, Sunday morning told me who I was. I woke before dawn, dressed in black, opened the church, prepared the altar, and stood where everyone expected me to stand. I left the priesthood six months ago after years of doubt and after falling in love with someone I could no longer pretend did not matter. The relationship has already ended. Now I have neither the Church nor the future I thought I left it for. Sundays are the worst. Cafés fill with families, runners, dogs, people buying bread. Everyone seems to understand what a free morning is for. I do not. Last Sunday, I walked past my old church during Mass. I heard the congregation respond to prayers I could have spoken without looking at a page. Nobody saw me outside. I kept walking. Friends say this is a chance to discover myself beyond vocation. At fifty-four, discovery feels less romantic than unemployment with metaphysical consequences. I know how to stand beside the dying, conduct a funeral, and speak to a room about forgiveness. I do not know how to spend Sunday at eleven when no one is waiting for me to explain God.