The Welcome Started Before You Spoke

The sun is setting, and the armor you wore all day finally feels heavy enough to drop. But instead of resting, you are standing in the doorway of your own heart, rehearsing a speech.

You think you need to explain the mess before you are allowed to be held. You believe the embrace is conditional on the perfect apology.

But the light does not wait for your words to finish. It sees the father running before the speech even begins.

It knows the sickness before the doctor is called. The holding is not the reward for getting your story straight; it is the place where your story makes sense.

You can put the index cards down. The welcome started the moment you turned around.