The Light Does Not Do The Math

The house is quiet now, and the math begins. You are weighing your pain against the strength of the hands holding you, calculating exactly how much you can hide before they realize you are too heavy and let go.

You are terrified that if they see the full weight of your grief, they will drop you. But listen — the light does not do the math.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in filth, and he did not wait for the apology or the cleanup. He ran.

Before the speech, before the promise to be lighter, he ran. He did not calculate the cost of carrying you.

He simply opened his arms. You are not a burden to be measured.

You are a child to be held. The light does not drop what it loves.