The Light Knows You Are Tired

The engine is off, but the noise in your head is still running. You stare at the steering wheel, rehearsing the small lie about why the bag holds only basics tonight. Why there is no treat. Why the joy had to be left on the shelf. The mask feels heavy now that the performance is over. You are exhausted from pretending the empty hands are enough.

But notice—the darkness outside the glass has not swallowed you. The light shines in the darkness, and it has not overcome you. It is right here, in the silence of the parked car. It sees the lie before you speak it, and it does not turn away. It sees the hunger behind the excuse, and it does not condemn. You think you must protect your family from the truth of your lack. Yet the truth is already sitting in the passenger seat. The light knows you are tired. It knows you are doing the best you can with what you have. You do not need to perform peace for the ones waiting inside. You only need to walk through the door as you are. The lie is not necessary. The light is already home.