Chapter 2 The First Glance

I didn't go to church that Sunday to fall in love. Honestly, I had other things on my mind-like keeping my six-month-old daughter quiet through the service and making sure I didn't look like the exhausted single mum that I was. But life has a funny way of throwing surprises your way when you're least ready for them.

He walked into the church just a few minutes before the service began, Bible in hand, wearing a simple white shirt that somehow made him look like he stepped right out of a magazine. There was nothing overly dramatic about him-no flashy suit, no oversized cross, no booming voice. Just calm confidence. But what struck me the most was how his eyes seemed to see people-really see them. And when they landed on me, something shifted.

I remember pretending to adjust my daughter's headband just to avoid eye contact, but it was too late. He smiled. That kind of slow, respectful, unbothered smile that said, "I see you, and you matter."

It turns out he was the guest preacher that morning. Pastor Daniel. Newly ordained. Only 26. My age. And honestly, way too good-looking for a man of God. As he stepped up to the pulpit, my heart did something funny. Not the "falling in love" kind of funny-not yet-but the kind that says pay attention.

And so, I did.

The message he preached wasn't loud or overly emotional. It was real. Vulnerable. He talked about pain, restoration, and how God still writes beautiful stories from broken beginnings. At one point, I swear he looked straight at me when he said, "Your past doesn't disqualify you from love or purpose."

I wanted to cry. Not because of the sermon-but because for the first time in a long time, I felt seen. Not judged. Not pitied. Just... seen.

After the service, I tried to disappear into the crowd. I had no interest in socializing. But church people being church people, someone dragged me toward him.

"This is Sister Tolu," the woman said with a wide smile. "One of our young mothers. A strong woman of faith!"

Strong? I hadn't even brushed my baby's hair properly.

"Nice to meet you," he said warmly. "And what's her name?" He leaned gently toward my daughter, who stared at him with her big, curious eyes.

"Zara," I mumbled, suddenly aware of how sweaty my palm was.

"Beautiful name," he said, then looked at me again. "You're doing a great job."

That was all.

No dramatic moment. No fireworks.

Just a kind man telling a tired young mum that she was doing okay.

But that was enough.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

And it wasn't because Zara woke up twice crying.

It was because I kept hearing his voice-You're doing a great job. And I wondered what it would be like to have someone like that... every day.