The Light Sitting on the Bathmat With You

The key turns. The lock clicks.

And for a moment, the world is just you and the cold tile beneath your knees. You hold your breath so the small hands on the other side of the door won't hear you shatter.

You think this silence makes you strong. You think hiding the tears protects them.

But the light does not need you to be unbreakable. It only needs you to be real.

There is a peace that does not depend on the door staying locked or the mask staying smooth. The Father's love is not waiting for you to stop crying; it is already in the room, sitting on the bathmat with you, weeping because you feel you have to hide.

You are not failing your child by breaking. You are teaching them that even the broken are held.

The light is not afraid of your noise.