I'm 48. I should be at the peak of my career, right? People my age are showing in galleries, selling pieces for… well, for more than I make in a year, for sure. I look at my blank canvas – a big one, expensive, I used a credit card – and there's nothing. Just white. It’s been weeks. I used to stare at a blank canvas and see so much, too much sometimes. Now it’s just… blank. My mom, she’s in a facility now. Moved her in last month. It was hard – really hard. She didn’t want to go, and I had to tell her it was for the best, that I couldn't do it anymore. Which is true, mostly. I was spending all my time taking care of her, running her errands, making sure she ate. No time for my art. No time for anything. And the money… well, let’s just say there’s never enough. So now she’s there, and I have all this time, all this space, all this quiet. And I thought the art would just flow out of me. Like a dam had burst. But it’s just… gone. I feel like a terrible person. For putting her there, for feeling relieved, for not being able to paint a single thing now that I have the "freedom" I supposedly wanted. She used to ask me, “Are you going to be a starving artist forever, honey?” Not in a mean way, but you know. She just worried. And I always said, “No, Mom, one day I’ll make it big.” But I haven't. And now she's somewhere else, and I'm staring at this canvas, and it’s like she took all the color with her. Or maybe I just used her up, used up all my inspiration on her… I don’t know. I just feel so… empty. And guilty. So, so guilty.