Liam Barr

When someone hurts us the consequence arrives first.
We can see exactly what they did.
So their intention starts to look just as obvious.

They knew.
They chose.
They did not care.

Then our own mistakes come back.
The promise we honestly forgot.
The word that landed harder than we meant.

The harm was real.
The malice was not.

We were inside that one.
We are never inside theirs.

We know we are not our worst result.
We can let that be true of them.

Family time rarely announces itself.
It looks like plates left on the table and one more story before anyone moves.

We enjoy it with one eye on what comes next.
The drive home. Tomorrow. The week ahead.

So the evening feels like a pause.
A lovely gap before important life resumes.

But nothing has paused.

The voices around the table are the evening itself.

We spend years asking for more of this.
Then it arrives without a headline and stays until somebody stands.

The important part is already here.
It is sitting with us at the table.

We ask the universe to open a door.
Then lean our whole weight against it.

We try the handle.
Push a little harder.
Read the stillness as a lock.

We come back to it each morning.
Shoulder to the wood. Nothing gives.

A closed door makes waiting feel personal.
As though more effort should change its mind.

A door that opened now would drop us straight on the floor.

Maybe it's time to stop trying to force our way in.
And just wait for the door to open.