I'm the designated escort for my mother's various geriatric appointments – the GP, the orthopedist, the gastroenterologist – while my siblings, busy with their own *important* lives and larger houses, send a perfunctory text asking if she’s ‘alright.’ It’s not a big deal, but there’s this weird, almost absurd sense of… *existential dread* mixed with a strange kind of familial performance, like I’m fulfilling some ancient cultural dictate while simultaneously being entirely overlooked.
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