So, a nun walks down the street with her mother. The mother is in civilian clothes, but she might almost as well wear the habit. Same unstylish blue shirt, a uniform fit. Also, the same nose, the same cheeks, the same eyes, the same walk.
I entertain myself with tabloid-shaped headlines: I suckled a nun, my wicked husband unknowingly fathered a nun. I write them a story as they linger. One married god, the other married man, I suppose. Or one resigned herself to man, the other to god. Or one is a nuclear weapons researcher and the other was driven to prayer. Or the mother is really a much older sister. Or they are identical twins, one aged unnaturally by whatever drove the other to the church or aged unnaturally by not having joined the church. Or the older one looks her age and church has preserved the nun's youth or stunted her growth. Or the younger one isn't a nun at all and the older one isn't a woman.
So, a nun walks down the street with her mother.