The Father Ran Before You Were Fixed

The house is quiet now, and the day's inventory has begun. You are weighing your fractures against the possibility of love, convinced you must be whole before you are worthy of being held.

But the light does not wait for your repair. It does not require you to sweep the floor before it enters the room.

There was a father who saw his son coming home — dirty, broken, rehearsing a speech about how to earn a place among the servants. The father did not wait for the apology.

He ran. He ran while the boy was still covered in the pig pen's filth, before a single thing was fixed.

The embrace came first — the restoration followed. You are trying to fix yourself in the dark, but the light is not interested in your perfection.

It is interested in your presence. Stop trying to become lovable.

You already are.