It used to be me pointing out the sun in the morning— telling my children to look behind the clouds. But today, they saw something in my face before I could hide it: a single tear weighing itself on the threshold between my eyes and my chin. I tried to hold it there— to keep it from spilling, to keep it private, to keep it from becoming real in the world. But children notice the things we think we’ve balanced. They saw the presence in my eyes before the tear broke its shape. And suddenly they were the ones pointing to the light: “Mummy… look behind the clouds.” They didn’t need tears running down my cheeks to understand. They felt the moment forming— because they are present, attuned, aware. I’ve spent their whole lives watching them, and now they are watching me back. Inside, something reorganises. Breath gathers. The landscape shifts. You walk with them, holding hands, asking about their day, hoping you’re still showing up even as everything around you changes its shape. And then you learn your children have been producing outstanding work while the ground beneath you was breaking and reforming. You didn’t feel strong. But they felt you strong. That is why you did a good job— even when it felt like you were invisible.
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