Your Footprint Is Known And Held

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with the replay of every small sound you made today. You are convinced that one too many creaks, one too many footsteps, has turned the people you love against you.

You lie still, waiting for the resentment to arrive in the dark. But listen — the light does not keep a ledger of your noise.

There is a love that is not disturbed by your existence. It does not wake up angry because you moved.

It sees the one who is weary and burdened by their own presence, and it does not turn away. You are not a disturbance to be tolerated.

You are the child of the house, and your very footprint is known and held. The silence you fear is not full of judgment; it is full of a peace that does not require you to be invisible.