I’m 61 this year. My body… it just hurts. Not like a bad hurt, just a constant ache. Like a dull pencil drawing lines on my bones. I keep thinking about what I’ve done. What I haven’t done. All those canvases I started, the ones I just put in the corner. Remember that big oil painting of the river? I swore I’d finish that. It’s still rolled up in the garage. Is that weird? To think about that at 2am, when I should be thinking about bills or something? My mind always goes to the art. The things I *could* have made. My sister’s kids. Bless their little hearts. The two youngest – Maya is 7, Leo is 5 – they’ve been with me for... well, seems like forever. Almost three years now. Their mom, my sister, she just disappeared after the last baby. Just stopped calling. The older ones, my nephews, they live out of state. I call them, email them. They never pick up. Never call back. I leave messages. “Hey, just checking in. Hope you’re doing okay. The kids... they ask about you.” Nothing. I tried for a long time. Bought a new phone so I could video call. No answer. Just silence. It’s always silence with them. I get up at 5:30 am every day. Make breakfast – usually oatmeal with some frozen berries. Get them ready for school. Walk them there, rain or shine. My part-time job at the craft store starts at 9. I leave work at 2, pick them up, then straight to my other job, cleaning houses, from 3 to 7. Sometimes 8 if there’s a big one. It’s a lot. Maya drew me a picture yesterday, a rainbow with a little stick figure holding hands with two smaller ones. She wrote, “best mom ever” at the bottom. I know I’m not their mom. I love them, I do. But sometimes... sometimes I just want to sit down and paint something. Just one thing. Is that selfish? To want to pick up a brush instead of another broom? To just stare at a blank canvas and not worry about what’s for dinner. I feel like I did something wrong. Like I made a choice, way back when, and this is the consequence. The universe balancing the scales. Is that what this is?