It’s like 2 am. Can't sleep. Just… swirling. Always swirling. Mom. She’s… harder. Every day a little harder. Not just the memory stuff, the repeating herself. That’s okay, mostly. I mean, it’s not *okay*, it’s sad, but I can deal with it. It's the… everything else. The demands. The phone calls, sometimes five, six times a day. "Where are you? What are you doing? When are you coming over?" And I go. I always go. Weekends are gone. My weekends. Gone. Evenings too. The laundry. The cooking. The sorting her mail, because she just piles it up, then yells when I ask about bills. "I know where everything is!" she shouts, but she doesn't. She really doesn't. I used to be a teacher. Retired. Thought I'd have time for myself, you know? My garden. Reading. Just… quiet. But it’s never quiet. My daughter, she’s great. She tries to help. "Mom, you look tired," she says. She doesn't understand. How can she? She has her own kids, her own life. I don't want to burden her. No. I won’t. But sometimes, when Mom calls, I just stare at the phone. Let it ring. And then the guilt. OH GOD THE GUILT. It’s a weight. Like a physical thing. Right here. In my chest. I looked at places. Assisted living. Just… looked. Online. Pictures. Bright rooms. Activities. People. Other people for her to talk to, not just me. Me, me, me. All her focus is me. She used to have friends. They're mostly gone now. Or can't visit. The thought of it. Of even suggesting it. She would HATE me. She would say, "You're putting me away." She would cry. And I would crumble. I know I would. I just… can't imagine that conversation. My throat closes just thinking about it. It’s like a performance review gone wrong. I'm failing. My metrics are terrible. Used to be top of my game, always. Organized. Efficient. Now? I feel… scattered. My own house is a mess. I forget things. Appointments. Small things, but still. The stress. It’s like a hum, always there. In the background. Then sometimes it just screams. I just want… a moment. A full day. To not be responsible for another human being. To just be me. Is that so bad? Am I a terrible person? A bad daughter? My mother did everything for me. Everything. And I can't even… I can't even have this thought. This awful, selfish thought. But it’s there. Always there. What if… what if she would be happier? What if I would be… not happy, no. But less… less like this. Empty. Just empty. No real point to this. Just needed to type it out. Into the void. Nowhere else to put it. The quiet hum of the guilt. Never goes away.