The Embrace Before The Apology

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with the words you should have said. You replay the moment you snapped, the sharp edge of your voice, and you are already drafting the apology you are too tired to deliver tonight.

The gathering dark brings an inventory of failure, whispering that you must fix this before you can rest. But listen — the light does not require your perfect speech to stay close to you.

There was a father who saw his son coming home, broken and rehearsing a speech, and he ran before the first word could be spoken. The embrace came before the apology.

The feast was ready before the confession was finished. You do not have to earn your way back into love by staying awake to perform penance.

The light knows what you said in the heat of the moment, and it knows the regret you feel now, and it is not waiting for you to get it right. It is waiting for you to lay down the weight of being perfect.

Close your eyes. The morning will bring the chance to make it right, but tonight, you are allowed to be held without having to say a word.