Loving Without the Embrace

The day ends, and the house is quiet in a way that feels heavy. You wait for the small feet that used to run to you when they fell, but now they stay silent in their room, nursing the wound alone.

That silence is a wall you did not build, but one you must now walk around with gentleness. The light does not force the door open; it stands in the hallway and waits for you to stop performing strength.

There is a bruised reed the light will not break, and a smoldering wick it will not snuff out — even when the child refuses to be held. You are not failing because the running has stopped; you are being asked to love without the reward of their embrace.

The love you offer tonight is not measured by their response, but by your willingness to stay.