He Ran Before You Fixed Your Face

The engine is off now, but the silence in the car feels heavier than the noise of the day. You sit with your hands on the wheel, trying to scrub the hardness off your face before you turn the key and walk through that front door.

You are afraid they will see the cracks. Afraid they will know how much their pain is breaking you.

But the light does not need you to be unbroken to let you in. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

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

He did not wait for the boy to fix his face. He did not wait for the shame to be washed away.

He met him in the dust. You do not have to perform okayness for the ones you love.

The light is already inside the house, waiting not for your mask, but for your heart. Take a breath.

The day is done. You are allowed to just be.