I am sitting on the floor of the pantry right now because it's the only place where the light doesn't hit me and I can actually breathe. It’s 6 PM. Most people are finishing their day or getting dinner or whatever, but I’m just staring at a box of dry pasta and listening to her scream into her headset in the next room. She’s in the kitchen. She just poured her fifth cup of coffee. I counted. Five. In the last three hours. And she’s doing that thing where she vibrates—not like a normal person, but like a phone stuck on a table. She looked at me and said she’s just "high-energy" today. High-energy. Right. It’s a joke. It’s a total freaking joke. It’s a budget meeting. A four-hour budget meeting on a Tuesday night. Why? Why does anyone need to talk about numbers for that long? I have a midterm tomorrow. I have a whole stack of flashcards for Anatomy that I haven't even touched because I had to spend three hours at the pharmacy getting HER heart meds and then another hour at the grocery store because she only eats one specific kind of yogurt and if I don't get it she just won't eat at all. She’ll just drink coffee until her blood is basically espresso and her heart starts doing backflips. She calls it "staying sharp" but I call it making sure I don't have to call 911 before midnight. I had to wash her work blazers today. I’m 20 years old and I know more about the delicate cycle on a washing machine than I do about my own major. I spent my afternoon steaming out wrinkles so she can look like a "Senior Executive" while I look like I crawled out of a dumpster. I’m the one making sure the bills are actually paid. I’m the one who makes sure the dog doesn't starve. I’m the one who hides the wine so she doesn't mix it with the caffeine and the pills she takes to "level out." But yeah, she’s the one with the career. She’s the successful one. Everyone tells me how lucky I am to have such a powerful role model. I just want to throw up. She walked past the pantry a minute ago and saw me sitting here. She didn't even ask why I was on the floor. She just pointed at the empty coffee pot and mouthed "more please" while nodding at her laptop. Like I’m her freaking intern. I’m her daughter! I’m supposed to be at a library or a party or literally anywhere else. But I just stood up, took the pot, and started the machine again. I just did it. I hate myself for it. I HATE IT. I want to smash the pot against the counter just to see if she’d even notice the noise over the sound of her own voice talking about "quarterly projections" and "efficiency." It’s funny, in a messed up way. If I ever acted like this, if I ever stayed up all night and drank five coffees and forgot to eat, she’d tell me I’m being dramatic. She’d tell me I need to get my life together. But when she does it, it’s a "hustle." It’s "dedication." It’s her being a badass woman in business. Meanwhile, I’m the one who has to peel her off the couch at 2 AM when the crash finally hits and she starts crying because she can't find her glasses or her phone or her dignity. I’m the one who has to tell her it’s okay when it’s definitely NOT okay. It hasn't been okay for years and I'm the only one who sees it. My friends don't even call anymore. They invite me out and I have to make up some lie about being busy with school. Busy with school? I wish. I’m busy making sure a 50-year-old woman doesn't have a stroke while arguing about a spreadsheet. I haven't been "young" since I was about twelve. I’ve been a parent since middle school. I look in the mirror and I see her stress lines starting on my own face and it makes me want to scream. I’m twenty! I should be making mistakes and being stupid, not checking the side effects of blood pressure medication and making sure the "high-energy" executive has her favorite pen. I can hear her laughing now. That fake, sharp work laugh. It’s the loudest sound in the house. She’s telling someone on the call that she’s "fueled by passion." No, Mom, you’re fueled by the three different stimulants in your system and the fact that I’m the one holding the floor underneath your feet so you don't fall through. If I left for one week, this whole house would burn down. She wouldn't even know how to turn on the dishwasher. She’d just keep drinking coffee in a pile of dirty plates until she turned into a pile of ash and expensive perfume. I’m just so tired. Not coffee-tired. Not "high-energy" tired. I’m like, soul-tired. I feel like a battery that’s been recharged too many times and now it only holds a charge for like ten minutes before it goes red. I’m sitting here typing this on my phone and my thumbs are actually shaking. I just want to go to sleep and not wake up to the sound of a Keurig. I want to be the one who falls apart for once. Just once. I want someone to look at me and realize that I’m drowning right in front of them, but they just see the girl who "has it all together." But I’ll get up in a second. I’ll pour the coffee. I’ll put it on the little marble coaster so it doesn't leave a ring on the mahogany desk I spent an hour polishing. I’ll go back to my flashcards and try to memorize the bones in the human hand while she yells about profit margins and "streamlining." And tomorrow morning, she’ll wake up and tell me how great she feels and how much she accomplished. She’ll act like I’m just a kid who’s lucky to live here for free. She won't remember the pantry. She won't remember me staring at her like she’s a total stranger. I think I’m actually going to lose my mind. I’m going to just start laughing during her meeting. I’m going to walk in there and tell her boss that she hasn't slept in forty-eight hours and that her "high energy" is actually a mental breakdown in a designer suit. I won't, though. I’ll just sit here. I’ll stay in the pantry for five more minutes. I’ll stay the "good" one. The responsible one. The one who doesn't exist unless something needs to be fixed. I feel like I'm disappearing. I really do. Everything is for her. Everything. And I'm just... nothing. I'm just the help.