You Are the Bread When Cupboards Are Bare

The afternoon light is unforgiving when the cupboard is bare. You sit across from your child, spinning a story about why dinner is just soup tonight, because the truth feels too heavy for their small hands to hold.

You are performing okayness while your stomach knots, pretending the lack of bread is a choice and not a crisis. But the light does not need your performance to see you.

It sees the hollow place in the room and the fear behind your eyes. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even this kitchen, even this lie born of love.

You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord, and you are still that light even when you have nothing to give. The bread you cannot provide is not the source of your worth.

You are the bread.