I don’t even know what I’m doing here. It’s almost 2 am. I should be sleeping. But I can’t. This thing is eating at me. It’s just… a lot. My mom. She needs help. A lot of help. More than I can give her, honestly. She had that fall, you know? The one where she broke her hip. And now… it’s just not the same. She can’t really get around on her own. It’s hard to watch. It is. And I know she needs someone there, all the time. An aide. A person to help her. And those people cost money. A lot of money. Money I have. Or, had. Because I spent it. All of it. On a vacation. A trip. Just for me. To get away. I know, I know. It sounds awful. It IS awful. My mom is struggling, and I blew through my savings on… a beach. Piña coladas. Little umbrellas in my drinks. Is that weird? Does everyone feel this? This heavy, gross feeling? Like a rock in my stomach that just won't go away. I just needed to breathe. For once. I've been home for… ever. Since I was nineteen. My whole adult life. Just home. Taking care of things. The house, my little brother when he was younger, then mom and dad, now just mom. And I love her. I do. But sometimes… I just want to run away. And I did. I actually did it. For a week. A whole week. And it was amazing. No calls. No doctor’s appointments. No worries about whether she ate. Just… me. And the ocean. And now I’m back and the guilt is like a physical thing. It’s sitting on my chest. She needs someone. I know she does. And I could have paid for it. For a few months, at least. Given her some real help. But I didn’t. I bought myself a plane ticket. A really nice hotel. Room service. I saw a picture of her on my sister’s phone from when I was gone and she just looked so… small. And alone. And I was on a boat tour. Ugh. What kind of person does that? I’m supposed to be the responsible one. The one who always helps. And now I just feel like a monster. A selfish, terrible monster. And the worst part? I don’t even regret it. Not really. And THAT'S what kills me.