The Light Waits While You Scrub

You stand in the doorway, rehearsing a casual greeting so no one sees the raw skin beneath your sleeve. The performance feels heavy right now, a mask you wear to keep the peace while your hands still sting from the scrubbing.

But there is a truth that walks right through the kitchen door and sees the effort you are making to appear normal. It does not ask for your composure.

It does not need the greeting you practiced. It sees the scrubbing, the stinging, the fear of being found out — and it stays.

You think you must clean yourself up before you can be welcomed, but the light is already sitting at the table, waiting for the real you to put the cup down. The mask is exhausting, and you are allowed to let it drop.