In That Moment

There it is
no longer performing,
no longer hiding,
but bringing it all to light.

And I am standing
by the kitchen window,
exhausted,
heart pounding,
breath short,
listening.

Every word,
every blame,
falls against me
the very ones
I poured my twenties into
now casting doubt
on the years I gave.
Shaking,
I look at my husband.
His eyes
so drained,
so tired
beg for it to end.
He wants quiet,
wants this storm behind us.
I can almost weep for him,
but my body halts.

And suddenly,
peace like a river
washes me whole.
For a moment,
I smile.
The trembling lifts.
The ache stills.
And I think
maybe I am not undone.
But then the questions rush back:
“Has it always been this bad?”
“Did they cry while I was blind to their ache?”
“How many ‘I love yous’ were rehearsed?”
“Was I so sure of my devotion
that I missed the truth beneath their eyes?”

Everything hidden in darkness
does come to light
and now the light burns me.
They accuse.
They blame.
They throw me away.

But none of them know
the many nights I cried myself to sleep,
the days I thought would end
in the abyss of ache,
the prayers whispered into pillows
to be the mother God asked me to be.

So I tell myself
this is not the whole truth.
Pain can reshape memory,
and hurt can speak louder than love.

Still, I watch.
I listen.
I sympathize
even when sympathy drains me,
even when months
stretch on like years.

The home we built together
crumbles piece by piece.
I hold my ground,
back pressed against
walls cracking under weight.

I wanted to understand them
to believe their pain was real,
to cradle them in new mercy.

Yet somewhere inside,
I wondered if this too was release
if distance needed a story,
if separation needed a reason,
if growing away from us
required us to become the villain.
So I remain
hurt, yes;
shaken, yes;
but not destroyed.

I hold on to the One
who saw every seed planted,
who heard the prayers I whispered
while their roots were still forming.

Maybe some blooms
were always meant to grow
beyond these walls built.
Maybe they needed different soil,
or another horizon,
or light we could never give.

And maybe loving them
still means letting them go
even if it breaks our hearts,
even if they never see
the care behind our hands.

I gave what I had.
I stayed when it hurt.

And I trust that the God
who knows the garden
will tend to what I cannot.