The Feast Before The Apology

The night is heavy when you are still rehearsing the speech you think you owe before you are allowed to rest. You stand outside your own life, holding a bowl of words you believe you must serve before you can sit at the table.

But listen — the light does not wait for your apology to set a place for you. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the dirt of his mistake.

He did not wait for the speech. He ran.

Before the first word of regret could be spoken, he was already embracing him. The feast was prepared before the apology was finished.

The hunger you feel is not a punishment for what you did; it is an invitation to come in. You do not have to earn your seat.

The door is not locked against you; it is open, and the table is already set. Sit down.

Eat. The love you are trying to earn has already been given.