Let the mask slip in the steam

The water is hot, but your mind is cold, rehearsing the words you will say later so you don't fall apart in front of them. You are building a mask of calm, layer by layer, trying to sand down the edges of your grief until it fits a shape the world can accept.

But the light does not need your performance. It sees the tremor in your hands that you are trying to hide.

It knows the speech is a shield, not a truth. You are not required to be steady today.

The Father's love is not a reward for composure; it is the ground beneath you when your knees give out. You do not have to hold the silence together.

Let the mask slip. The light is already there, waiting in the room where the breaking happens, not to fix the cracks but to sit with you in them.