The Father Ran Before You Spoke

The sun is up, and you are already tired from holding everyone else together. You fear that if you stop fixing, stop solving, stop carrying the weight of every room you enter, the people you love will finally see the cracks and walk away.

But look at the light returning to the sky. It does not earn its place by fixing the darkness.

It simply shines. It does not apologize for being broken into a thousand colors by the clouds.

It just arrives. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech, before the son could offer to work as a servant to make things right — the father ran.

The embrace came first. The fixing came later.

The light does not love you for what you carry. It loves you for who you are when you put it down.

You are not the glue holding the world together. You are the child who gets to be held.