The Name Written on White Stone

The afternoon hums with the noise of people pretending to be fine, masking the ache of a name spoken once with disgust. You carry that voice like a stone in your pocket, heavier than the work you do, louder than the phones ringing.

It echoes the moment your sibling turned love into a weapon, freezing a single second where you were rejected instead of known. But the light does not remember you by their bitterness — it remembers you by your root.

There is a name the Father has for you, written on a white stone, known only to you and to Him, which no human tongue can tarnish. The voice that shamed you was small; the light that holds you is immeasurable.

You are not defined by the one time they refused to love you.