You Are A Child To Be Held

The house is waking up, and you are holding your breath so the mattress won't creak. You sit perfectly still on the edge of the bed, terrified that your very existence is a burden they have to carry.

You wear the quiet like a mask, pretending that if you take up no space, you will cause no pain. But the light does not measure your worth by how little you disturb the air.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — before the apology, before the speech, before the promise to be better — he ran. He did not wait for the boy to make himself useful.

He ran because the boy was his. You are not a weight to be managed.

You are a child to be held. The light sees behind the performance and loves what is hiding there.

Your silence is not a gift to them; your presence is the gift itself.