Loved Before You Take Off The Mask

The engine is off, but the silence in the car is louder than the road was all day. You sit there, gripping the wheel, terrified to open the door and switch from the person who has all the answers to the parent who has nothing left to give.

The mask feels glued to your skin, heavy and suffocating, and the thought of taking it off feels like falling apart. But the light does not need your performance to love you.

It sees the exhaustion behind your eyes and calls it holy. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

You do not have to compose yourself before you enter. The light meets you in the driveway, exactly as you are — empty, tired, real.

You are not required to be full to be loved. You are loved because you are there.