I just… I can’t sleep. It’s 2:17 AM and my mind is just… *on*. It’s this hum, you know? Like a fridge that’s about to give out, just buzzing and buzzing. I’m sitting here, kid’s been asleep for hours, husband’s snoring like a dying walrus, and all I can think about is Thursday. Every Thursday. We, humans, are such creatures of habit, aren’t we? We build these little routines, these traditions, and then they become like concrete, impossible to chip away at, even when they’re crushing us. Is that weird? Does everyone feel this? Like, my dad. He worked at the same warehouse for 40 years. Forty. He retired five years ago, and since then, every single Thursday, he cooks dinner for the same three guys he’s known since kindergarten. Barry, Mike, and... Richard. Always Richard. It’s like a pilgrimage, a sacred rite. My mom makes a big deal about it, how sweet it is, how much it means to him, this lifelong camaraderie. And yeah, it’s nice, on the surface. But I see it. I see his shoulders hunching a little more every time Richard opens his mouth. Last night, it was shepherd’s pie. My dad makes THE BEST shepherd’s pie, seriously, it’s legendary. And Richard, he’s shoveling it in, right? And then he just *stops*, chews slow, and goes, “Still making those little pies, eh, John? Thought you’d have graduated to something a bit more… *complex* by now. Not like you ever did much heavy lifting, even at the plant. More of a… supervisor of the sweeping, wouldn’t you say?” And he gave this *wink* to Barry, who just chuckled. My dad just sort of… smiled. That tight, polite smile. And it happened again. It *always* happens. “Remember that time John tried to get into management? Bless his heart, he thought a six-week course was gonna turn him into a CEO. Stick to the floor, eh, John?” And I want to scream. Like, *scream*. My dad, this man who raised me, who taught me how to change a tire and tell a good joke, who worked his ass off for decades, just sits there and takes it. Every week. For five years. Longer, probably. Is it loyalty? Is it just… being too tired to fight? My own life feels a bit like that sometimes, you know? Like I’m just performing the role I’ve been given. Stay-at-home parent, chief comfort giver, endless laundry folder. And a part of me, a loud, obnoxious part, is constantly screaming, “IS THIS IT?!” But then the guilt kicks in, like a punch to the gut. The kids are happy, they need me, this is important work. But the *me* that existed before… where is she? So I’m just here, staring at the grey light starting to creep under the blinds, thinking about my dad and his damn shepherd’s pie and that smug look on Richard’s face. And I wonder, will I be doing the same thing in thirty years? Will I be making the same dinners, having the same conversations, shrinking a little bit more every week until there’s nothing left but a polite smile and a legendary recipe? God, I hope not. I really, really hope not.