The Dawn Does Not Ask For Your Resume

The house is quiet now, but the lie you told your child echoes louder than any silence. You said you were at work, or with a friend, when you were actually somewhere you cannot name without shame.

You watch them sleep and wonder if the darkness you carried in has stained them too. But the light that lives inside you was there before the lie, and it is there still — untouched by the words you spoke.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, covered in filth, and ran to meet him before the apology could even be formed. The light runs toward you too, not to expose the lie, but to hold you in the truth of who you are.

You are not the mistake you made tonight. You are the light that made the mistake, and the light remains.

The night is long, but the dawn does not ask for your resume before it arrives.