The Light Runs Toward The Bleeding

The house is quiet, but your heart is screaming because you saw them reach for the box before they reached for you. You taught them that pain is a secret to be wrapped in silence, that bleeding means hiding the stain.

But listen — the light does not ask for a bandage. It asks for the wound.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, covered in the filth of his mistakes. He did not wait for the boy to clean up.

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

The light is running toward your child right now. Not to scold the bleeding.

To hold the one who bleeds. You can put the box away.

The love that holds you is strong enough to hold the mess.