The Father Runs Before You Speak

This hour feels like a fortress you built yourself, stone by heavy stone. You tell yourself it is humility to carry the weight alone, that asking would be a failure of strength.

But listen — the silence you keep is not holy. It is pride wearing a mask.

The light does not wait for you to prove you are strong enough. It waits for you to admit you are not.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. You do not have to finish the sentence.

You do not have to clean up the mess before you knock. Just open the door.

The fear says you must stand alone. The truth says you were never meant to.