I’m 70. My husband, Arthur, died almost two years ago. Not that it matters, but it was cancer. He’d been sick for years, really. Not just the last year, when it was… all the way through him. But the kind of sick where he needed help, where I was fetching and carrying and doing everything, for a good decade before that. His mind went first, a slow unraveling. Then his body followed. I was the wife. The mother. The grandmother. The daughter, even, until my mother passed just before Arthur really went downhill. Always the one doing for everyone else. Everyone relied on me. I was the rock. The one who made sure all the appointments were kept, all the bills were paid, all the meals were cooked. I prided myself on it, honestly. It felt good to be needed. It felt like I had a purpose. Now? Now I sit in my house. The house is exactly the same. Arthur’s recliner still sits in the living room, a little worn on the armrest where he always rested his head. His pipe stand, empty now, still on the end table. I haven't changed a thing. I can’t bring myself to. It’s not grief, not exactly. It’s more like… an exhibit. A museum to a life I don't live anymore. I try to keep busy. Oh, I try. I volunteer at the library two days a week. I play bridge with the ladies on Thursdays. I even joined a book club. All the things people tell you to do. "Keep active, Agnes!" they chirp. "Find a new hobby!" I nod and smile. I make tea. I bring cookies. I’m still doing for everyone else, just in a different setting. But the moment I’m home, the moment the front door closes, it all drops away. The smile. The cheerful "oh, yes, I’m doing just fine, thank you." It’s replaced by this… emptiness. A vast, echoing quiet. It’s not just the quiet of the house, though that’s bad enough. It’s the quiet inside me. No one needs me anymore. No one is asking me for anything. No one is waiting for me to do something. Sometimes I just sit on the sofa and stare at the wall. For hours. Literally hours. The television might be on, but I don’t hear it. I don’t see it. I just sit. And think. Or, rather, don't think. It's more of a blankness. A deep, heavy nothing. I tell myself I should feel something. Anger, sadness, anything. But there’s just… flatline. Like an old battery. Drained. The other day, my granddaughter, bless her heart, called. "Grandma, how are you really doing?" she asked, with that earnest concern only young people have. I almost laughed. *Really doing?* I wanted to say. "I’m slowly turning into a houseplant, darling. Just need water and a little light, and I’ll photosynthesize my way through another day." Instead, I said, "Oh, I’m fine, sweetheart. Just enjoying my peace and quiet." The lie felt heavy in my mouth. I’m supposed to be resilient, aren’t I? I’ve seen so much. Lived through so much. My parents lived through the Depression. My mother always said, "You pick yourself up, Agnes. You dust yourself off." I did that, always. But this time… this time I don’t feel like getting up. I don’t feel like dusting myself off. I just feel… finished. Like I’ve run out of steam. I’m 70. I should be enjoying my retirement. But all I feel is this profound, suffocating apathy. And I hate myself for it.