I am retired, finally. My mornings are for walking now, something I always wanted. Not the power walk in the park, but truly walking, watching the light change, the birds, the river. It's a luxury I earned after decades of work, of raising children, of making sure everyone else had what they needed. This quiet, this peace... it's exactly what I pictured. But I can't share it. My daughter, she's in a demanding corporate job, long hours, constant pressure. She calls, exhausted, sometimes crying, about deadlines, impossible bosses, the endless chase. And I listen, I offer what comfort I can. Then she asks about my day. What am I supposed to say? "Oh, I watched a heron fish for twenty minutes, then spent an hour identifying wildflowers"? It feels… cruel. Like rubbing salt in a wound. She's struggling, and I'm floating. So I edit. I say "Oh, I walked a bit," or "Ran errands." I make my days sound busy, productive, anything but what they are: serene, unburdened. It's not a lie, exactly, but it's a significant omission. My parents, back in the village, they would have expected me to find joy in this, to share it as a blessing. But with my daughter, I feel a strange shame. A guilt. Like I've somehow betrayed her struggle by daring to find contentment. I just wish I could be honest without making her feel worse. But I can't. So I keep my mornings to myself.