The Father Ran Before You Spoke

The house is quiet now, and the only thing loud enough to hear is the fear that if you stop moving, the mask will slip and everyone will see the fraud beneath. You are holding your breath, convinced that your worth is a performance that must never end.

But there is a voice in this silence that does not ask for your work. The Father saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of failure, and he ran.

Before the apology, before the promise to do better — he ran. The light does not wait for you to earn your place at the table.

It sees the exhaustion behind your eyes and calls you beloved anyway. You are not a fraud who must perform to be kept.

You are a child who is already held.