I just… I can’t even believe I’m typing this out. It feels so… I don’t know, sacrilegious? Blasphemous? Something along those lines. Like a deeply awful thing to admit. I spent five years, five solid years, practically glued to my husband’s side. He had advanced dementia, you know? The kind where they don’t really know who you are anymore, and every day is a new challenge, a new heartbreak. And I was it. The primary caregiver. Doctor's appointments, meals, making sure he didn't wander off, trying to keep him comfortable, trying to keep myself from completely losing it. It was constant. Every single day. Every single night, too. I’d wake up at the slightest sound, convinced he was trying to get out of bed, or that he was confused, or in pain. It was just… relentless. Always on alert. Always. Is that weird? Does everyone feel that way when they’re responsible for someone like that? Like a perpetual state of emergency, even when everything is quiet? Because I felt like a sentry, a soldier standing guard against… well, against everything, I guess. He passed away last week. Peacefully. In hospice. Which, I have to say, was a blessing. The nurses were wonderful, really. And it was quiet there, for him. For me too, I suppose. And the thing is, the thing I feel so utterly GUILTY about, so ashamed to even think, let alone confess, is that I’ve been sleeping through the night. Every night since. For the first time in five years. Not just like, mostly sleeping, but truly, deeply, uninterrupted sleep. I wake up, and the sun is streaming in, and I haven't heard a peep, haven't jolted awake in a panic, haven't checked the monitor. And instead of feeling… sad, or grieving, or whatever I’m supposed to feel, there’s this quiet calm. This profound, almost frightening, sense of peace. And then the anger comes. Not at him, never at him, but at… everything. At the situation, at the unfairness of it all, at myself for feeling this way. Like, how DARE I feel relieved? How dare I find comfort in this silence? It’s not like I didn’t love him, I did. I really did. He was my husband. And it was agonizing watching him disappear, piece by piece. But now… I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for half a decade, and I’m finally able to exhale. But then the guilt kicks in, and it’s a vicious cycle. Because what does that say about me? What kind of person am I to feel this immense, almost giddy, sense of liberation? My neighbor, Carol, she came over yesterday with a casserole, and she kept saying how strong I was, how amazing I was for taking care of him so devotedly. And I just smiled and nodded, and inside I was screaming, *You have no idea, Carol. You have no idea what I’m actually feeling.* Because how do you tell someone that? In a small town like this, everyone knows everyone's business, and everyone knew I was his rock. But now the rock feels like it’s crumbling, and I’m just… floating away. And I’m not sure if I like it or if I hate myself for it. Probably both, if I'm being honest.