You Are the Reason the Door Was Left Open

It is three in the morning. The house is silent.

And you just caught yourself whispering 'I'm sorry' for taking up space in a room you were told you didn't deserve. Stop.

The apology does not belong here. The light does not ask for permission to exist.

It simply is. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the speech. He did not wait for the apology to finish.

He ran. Before the words could form, before the shame could settle, he was already there.

Arms open. Breathless.

You are trying to earn a place at a table where the seat was saved before you were born. The darkness tells you to shrink.

To make yourself small enough to slip by unnoticed. But the light inside you cannot be small.

It was there before the pain. It will be there after.

You do not have to justify your breath. You do not have to apologize for your presence.

The father is already running. The feast is already waiting.

You are not an intruder in this house. You are the reason the door was left open.