You Are a Child to Be Held

The afternoon sun is high, and the work demands your hands, but your heart is whispering a terrible fear: that your family only loved the version of you that was useful. That when the utility ends, the love ends.

You feel like a tool that is slowly rusting in the shed. But listen — the light does not measure your worth by what you produce today.

There is a Father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of wasted utility, and he ran. Before the apology, before the promise to work harder — he ran.

The love you are starving for was never payment for your labor. It was already there, waiting for you to stop earning it.

You are not a function to be performed. You are a child to be held.

The mask of usefulness is heavy, but you can put it down right now. The light sees the person beneath the performance, and it calls that person beloved.