Here I am again. 2 AM. Staring at the ceiling, or rather, the glow of this stupid phone. Another sleepless night, another replay of all the things I could have done, should have done, never did. The bakery. God, the bakery. My whole life, just...flour and sugar and the smell of yeast, day in, day out. Kneading dough, scrubbing floors, dealing with Mrs. Henderson’s ridiculous complaints about her sourdough being "too artisanal." And for what? So my brother, bless his cotton socks, doesn't have to lift a finger he doesn't want to. He’s got the hands of a damn concert pianist, not a baker. Delicate. Useless, is what they are for hauling 50-pound sacks of flour. I swear, the only heavy lifting he’s ever done is his own ego. And the books? Ha. If it weren't for me, we'd be selling sourdough to the birds already. He’s got big ideas, my brother. Always has. And absolutely no idea how to make a single one of them happen without someone else cleaning up the mess. Me. Always me. I had plans, you know. Actual plans. Before Mom got sick, before Dad just…shrunk into himself, before the bakery became my goddamn personal cross to bear. I wanted to teach. English lit. Imagine that. Discussing Shakespeare, dissecting poetry, instead of dissecting the day’s profit margins, which are usually nonexistent. I even got into a program, ages ago. Had it all mapped out. But then... well, then life happened. Or rather, my family happened. Someone had to step up. Someone had to take care of everything. And of course, that someone was me. The responsible one. The reliable one. The one who quietly shelved her own dreams so everyone else could keep theirs, however flimsy they might be. My brother’s dream, apparently, is to delegate absolutely everything while still taking credit for the occasional decent croissant. It’s almost funny. Almost. And now? I'm almost 70. SEVENTY. And I’m still here, still covered in flour dust, still making sure the bills get paid and the rent doesn't lapse. I want to retire. I want to travel. I want to read all the books I never got to read. I want to just BE, for once, without having to worry about someone else’s ineptitude bringing the whole house of cards down. But if I leave... what happens? He can't do it. He just can't. Physically, financially, emotionally. He’d implode. And then what? The bakery, gone. Our family legacy, gone. And I’d be the selfish sister who finally walked away. The one who let everyone down. So here I am. Trapped. Another morning will come, another batch of dough will need proofing, another day of pretending everything’s fine. And I’ll smile, and I’ll bake, and I’ll wonder what it would have been like to just…choose. For myself. Just once.