standing in the bathroom with the shower running to mask the sound of your own crying so the family doesn't hear

The water is loud enough to hide the shaking, but not loud enough to stop it. You stand there in the steam, letting the noise do the work of a closed door, because the people in the other room cannot know how heavy this middle part of the day has become.

They see the mask. They do not see the trembling hands.

But the light sees both. It is not offended by the sound of your grief.

It does not ask you to turn off the water and compose yourself before it will stay. There is a presence that sits with you on the tile floor, in the heat, in the noise.

You do not have to explain why the tears are coming. You only have to let them fall.

The light is not waiting for you to be strong. It is already there, weeping with you in the steam.