Love Runs Before You Apologize

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels like a verdict. You lie awake certain that your weight is too much, that the one you love will finally walk away because you are too heavy to carry.

But there is a love that does not measure burden. The father saw his son while he was still a long way off — covered in shame, starving, broken — and he ran.

Before the apology. Before the promise to be lighter.

He ran. That is how the light moves toward you.

Not away from the weight, but into it. You are not a problem to be solved or a load to be dropped.

The love that holds you is greater than your fear of abandonment. It has already decided to stay.

The terror says you will be left alone. The truth says you are being held tighter than you know.