The Father Ran Before The Apology

The sun is up, and the question comes again: 'How are you?' You say 'fine' before your feet hit the floor. It is a lie so practiced it feels like truth, a mask welded to your skin.

But the light does not need your performance to find you. It is already here, rising like the dawn, indifferent to your script.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — broken, rehearsing a speech he never got to finish. The father ran.

Before the apology, before the act — he ran. The light sees behind the mask and loves what is hidden there.

You do not have to be okay to be held. The morning is not a test you must pass; it is a gift you simply receive.

The lie is heavy, but the truth is lighter than air.