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To the Child Who Did Not Steal

 You were just playing.

Small hands arranging quiet kingdoms
out of broken plastic and dust.
The breeze was soft.
The sky, too big for your worries.
And yet—
they came for you.

Dragged, accused,
your name already shaped like guilt
before you even understood
what it meant to steal.

I want you to know something.
You didn’t do it.
You really didn’t.
I know you’re still asking if maybe you forgot—
if maybe you did something wrong
and just don’t remember.
But no, love.
You didn’t.

And more than that—
you shouldn’t have had to prove it.

You were not made for pain.
You were not made
to have the word liar
beaten into your back
just because an adult needed
a shape to hit
and you were the closest one.

You lied to survive.
That does not make you untrue.
That makes you brave.

You were four—maybe five—
but already your soul
was learning how to contort
to match a world
that didn’t listen.

They didn’t believe you.
But I do.
I believe every word of you.

And as for God—
if He really saw what happened
and still blamed you,
then maybe
it was never you
who needed forgiving.

I forgive you anyway.
Even though there’s nothing to forgive.
I forgive you because I love you.
I love you because
you still remember.

And that means you still matter.

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