The Love That Held It Remains

The house is quiet now, but your hand is full of plastic. You hold a small, discarded toy—a broken wheel, a faded figure—and you realize with a sudden, sharp ache that there is nothing left for you to fix.

The era of being the one who makes things whole is over. You walk through the morning wearing a face that says 'I am fine,' smiling at the coffee shop, nodding at work, while inside you are holding onto an object that no longer has a purpose.

You feel like a tool left out in the rain, rusting while the world moves on without you. But listen—the light does not measure your worth by your utility.

It sees the mask you wear to get through the day, and it loves the person underneath who is grieving a job well done. You were never just a fixer.

You were a presence. The toy is broken, yes, but the love that held it is not.

The light inside you is not a function to be performed; it is a life to be lived, even when your hands are empty. You are not obsolete because the needing has stopped.