The Light Runs Toward Your Tears

The door clicks shut behind you, and finally, you can breathe. You ran to the hallway just to fall apart where no one could see the cracks.

You think this hiding makes you a fraud, a parent who cannot hold it together. But listen — the light does not demand your performance.

It waits for your exhaustion. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the apology. He ran.

Before the speech, before the cleaning up — he ran. The light is doing the same thing right now.

It is not shocked by your tears. It is running toward the sound of them.

You do not have to be strong for the light to love you. Your breaking is not a barrier.

It is the very place the light enters. The mask is heavy, but you can put it down now.