Does anyone else feel like their entire life is just… a series of errands? Because I swear to god, I’m 71 years old and I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m just waiting for the next list. It’s 2:17 AM. I just got home from the third grocery run of the week. Third. On a Tuesday. And I’ve been up since 10 PM last night because my sister had one of her episodes. I work the night shift, you see. Has been that way for thirty years now. Gives me a lot of time to think. Mostly about how I never actually stopped working. My sister, bless her heart, she’s been in that chair for almost fifteen years now. Hip fracture that never healed right, then the complications, then the… well, it all piled up. And someone has to make sure she’s got her Boost and her specific brand of sugar-free pudding and those goddamn frozen dinners she insists on. So I get home from the graveyard shift, usually around 7 AM. The sun’s just starting to peek over the neighbor’s roof, birds are chirping like they haven’t got a care in the world. And I’m exhausted. My back aches from standing on that concrete floor all night, my eyes feel gritty like someone’s poured sand in them. All I want is a hot cup of coffee and an hour of peace before I try to sleep. An hour. Is that so much to ask? But no. The moment I unlock the door, it starts. “Did you remember the rye bread, Margaret? The pumpernickel just isn’t the same.” “Did you pick up my prescription? They close at five.” And then, the ultimate kicker, “Could you just run to the store for a few things? I just remembered I’m out of my oat milk.” Oat milk. Not regular milk. Not almond milk. Oat milk. She drinks one glass of the stuff a day. One. So I shrug off my coat, kick off my shoes, and instead of heading to the kitchen for my coffee, I’m pulling out my car keys again. Because if I don’t, she’ll be on my case all day. And then she’ll call the neighbors, or her niece, or the home health aide and tell them I’m neglecting her. Neglecting. Me. Who washes her laundry, who makes sure she has fresh sheets every three days, who cleans her bathroom top to bottom every Sunday. Today was particularly… vibrant. She told me she was out of her special cranberry juice. The organic, low-sugar kind. The one that’s only sold at that one health food co-op across town. I got home from work, around seven. She asked for the juice. I told her I hadn’t had time yet, I needed to sleep for a bit. She got quiet. That dangerous quiet. And then, at exactly 10:15 AM, she called my cell phone. Woke me up. “Margaret, I really need that juice. My bladder feels… funny.” Funny. So I drove twenty-five minutes there, waited in line for fifteen, drove twenty-five minutes back. Got home at noon. Dropped the juice on the counter. She smiled, that sweet, innocent smile she reserves for when she’s just completely run me into the ground. “Oh, thank you, dear. I knew I could count on you.” Count on me. As if there’s anyone else. As if I have a choice. I fell asleep around 1 PM, woke up at 5 PM. Got ready for work. Then, at 6:30 PM, she calls me into her room. “Margaret, I just checked the pantry. We’re almost out of those gluten-free crackers. The ones with the flax seeds. And I need a new box of those specific teabags, the herbal ones, the ‘sleepy time’ blend. Oh, and some more of those little individual yogurts. Strawberry only.” Strawberry only. So I went to work. Did my eight hours. Came home at 7 AM. Went to the regular grocery store for the crackers and the teabags. Drove to the specialty store for the yogurts – they don’t carry those at the regular place. Got home at 8:30 AM. Started making my coffee. And then she called me into her room AGAIN. “Margaret, honey, I just remembered… I’m completely out of my favorite brand of frozen lasagna. And my doctor said I need more iron. Can you pick up some spinach? The fresh kind, not frozen.” It’s just… it never ends. It just piles up. One thing after another, after another. I just want to sit down and read a book, or listen to my records, or just stare at the wall for five minutes without someone needing something. Anyone else feel like this? Like you’re just a pair of hands, an ATM, and a set of car keys? Because sometimes I feel like I’m going to scream. Just scream until my throat is raw and nobody can ask me for another goddamn thing. Not ever again.