Light Before the Goodbye

The afternoon light is honest; it shows the dust motes dancing in the space between two empty chairs. You are trying to find words small enough for little ears to hold, words that explain why the house is quiet now, why mommy and daddy do not share the same roof.

The middle of the day is the hardest part because there is no darkness to hide in and no night to promise an end; there is only the long, steady hum of a life rearranged. But listen — the kingdom grows like a mustard seed, sprouting in the soil whether you understand how or not.

The light is not dependent on the shape of your home or the presence of a second parent. It is a spring welling up inside your children that no separation can dam.

You did not choose this fracture, but the Light chose you long before the walls shifted. The light was there before the goodbye, and it will be there when the new routine settles.