Loved Before You Drop the Mask

The house is quiet now, and the silence feels heavy enough to crush you. You are holding your breath, terrified that if you exhale wrong, the mask will slip and everyone will see the broken thing underneath.

But the light does not need your performance to stay. It was there before you put the armor on, and it will be there when you finally let it drop.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of the pig pen, still rehearsing a speech about how he was no longer worthy. He did not wait for the apology.

He did not wait for the cleanup. He ran.

The fear says you must be perfect to be loved. The truth says you are loved so you can stop pretending.

You are not a project to be fixed. You are a child to be held.