You Are the Ground That Held Them

The applause is loud, but your hands are numb from the effort of clapping for a success you feel you didn't create. You smile until your face aches, hiding the quiet terror that your child's brilliance proves you had nothing unique to offer them.

You are the mask, and the light behind it feels like a stranger. But listen — the sun rises on the evil and the good without asking what they have earned.

It shines on the parent who feels empty just as warmly as it shines on the child who is full. Your worth was never measured by what you could produce or pass down.

The light does not compete with your child's glow; it is the very air they breathe to stand that tall. You are not the source of their fire, and you never had to be.

You are the ground that held them while they learned to burn.