You Are the Child Fed First

The house is awake now. The sunlight is hitting the floorboards, and the day has begun its demand for performance.

You put on the smile. You pour the cereal.

You make sure the bowls are full while your own stomach growls loud enough to rattle your ribs. You laugh it off when they ask.

You say you ate earlier. You lie because the truth is too heavy for a Tuesday morning.

The mask fits so well you forget it's there. But the light sees behind it.

It saw you lying awake last night, listening to the hunger, choosing their fullness over your own. It knows the cost of that silence.

There was a mother who stood by a jar of flour and a jug of oil, watching her last meal disappear to feed a son who did not yet know they were starving. She gave until there was nothing left.

And the light did not scold her for her empty cup. It filled it.

The light does not want you to starve so others can eat. It wants to be the bread that breaks for you, too.

You are not the guardian who must stay empty to keep the others safe. You are the child who is fed first.