The Father Runs Before You Step

The afternoon sun is high, and you are standing at the edge of a decision you did not ask to make. One foot hovers over the line, while the other remains planted in the safety of what you know.

The air feels thick with the weight of the middle—the long, quiet stretch between who you were yesterday and who you might become tomorrow. You are not frozen because you are weak.

You are frozen because the light inside you is waiting for you to stop calculating and start trusting. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the boy to cross the threshold. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech—he ran. The light does not require you to have the next step figured out.

It only asks that you take the one you can see. The edge is not a cliff.

It is a doorway. And the hand reaching for you is already open.