The Light in the Doorway

The afternoon light cuts across the hallway, catching the dust motes dancing around the two of them while you stand frozen in the doorway, the glass of water still heavy in your hand. You have become the utility—the one who fetches, who fixes, who waits in the wings while the comfort is exchanged between others.

But listen: the light does not measure your worth by who is hugging whom, or by whether you are the center of the embrace or the one holding the cup. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even the world of a person standing alone in a hallway.

You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord, not from the role you play in this house. The glass in your hand is not a symbol of your smallness; it is an act of love that the light itself sees, even if no one else turns to acknowledge it.

You are not defined by the doorway you stand in, but by the origin you carry within you.