The Father Runs Before You Clean Up

The coffee cup feels heavy this morning, a prop in a play you didn't audition for. You smile at the table, you nod at the work, but inside you are terrified they will see the corrosion eating away at your foundations.

You fear that if they look too closely, they will see the rot and turn away. But the light does not need a polished surface to shine through.

It sees the crack and calls it a doorway. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of the pig pen.

He did not wait for the boy to scrub the dirt off his face. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech—he ran. The light is not fooled by your mask, and it is not repelled by what lies beneath it.

It knows the corrosion is not who you are. It is just the thing that needs healing.

You do not have to hold the smile up any longer. The ones who love you are not looking for perfection—they are looking for you.