I closed out the register at seven tonight, exactly when I was supposed to. Left on time, no lingering. It felt… wrong. Like I was abandoning a post, even though the store wasn't exactly under fire. I heard them in the breakroom as I grabbed my backpack – Sarah, who has three kids and a husband working nights, and Mark, whose toddler just started daycare. Their voices carried, thin and tired, talking about who would pick up the kids tomorrow and how much it costs and how they just *can't* seem to get everything done. And I just walked out. Past the breakroom door, past their exhaustion, past the echoes of their conversations about balancing everything. No one stopped me, no one asked me to stay, because I'm the manager. I'm allowed to leave. But the guilt still clung to me like a phantom weight, that familiar pressure in my chest that used to hit when I'd watch the others pull guard duty while I was on some mandatory leadership training. I remember thinking then, *they're the ones doing the real work*. And I felt it again tonight. I drove home in silence, the radio off. My apartment is quiet, always quiet. No tiny voices demanding juice, no cries from a crib, no arguments about whose turn it is to do the dishes. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional siren from the main road. I poured myself a glass of water and sat down, staring at the wall. My phone buzzed with a message from my girlfriend, asking if I wanted to grab dinner, and I just stared at it, unable to form a reply. What right do I have to feel this… anger? This frustration? It’s not fair to feel like this when I'm the one who gets to go home to silence, to an empty apartment, to my own time. I don't have to worry about childcare, about fitting in groceries after a long shift, about keeping little people alive and happy. I just have to worry about myself. And yet, there it is. A knot of resentment, tight and hot, right behind my ribs. I remember thinking, after I got out, that civilian life would be simpler. Less demanding. Less… everything. And in some ways it is. I get to choose my hours, mostly. I don't have to clean my rifle every night or march in formation at dawn. But then there are moments like these, when the quiet feels too loud, and the freedom feels like a burden, and I just… I don't know what to do with any of it. I'm supposed to be grateful, I know. But I just feel… unmoored. And really, really angry at something I can’t quite name.