I don’t even know why I’m typing this. Probably because I can’t sleep. Again. It’s 2 AM, I’m sitting in my living room, and it feels like a goddamn museum. Huge place. Too big. Always thought I wanted this. The corner unit, floor to ceiling windows, city lights spread out below me like a million scattered diamonds. Now it just feels… empty. Cold. My dad passed three years ago. Then mom got sick. Fast. Alzheimer's. The kind that just eats them alive in like two years. I was the one. Always me. My sister, she lives clear across the country, said she’d help from afar. Whatever that means. My brother… don’t even get me started on him. So it was me. Every single day for the last two years. Every doctor's appointment. Every medication change. Every goddamn panic attack when she didn’t know who I was. The routine. That’s what’s killing me now. It was a grind, yeah. A real bitch sometimes. But it was *my* grind. Alarm at 6 AM. Check in with the overnight nurse. Go over the meds. Make sure mom ate her oatmeal without spitting it out. Drive her to physical therapy three times a week. Talk to the doctors. Talk to the home care agency. Deal with the bills. The insurance. It was endless. And I hated it. I HATED it. I used to fantasize about just packing a bag and disappearing. Just for a day. An hour. Then she was gone. A month ago. Just like that. Peacefully, they said. Like a switch flipped. And everyone said “Oh, it’s a blessing, she’s not suffering anymore.” And yeah, I guess that’s true. It was a blessing. For her. For me. I felt… relieved. And then I felt like a monster for feeling relieved. Now it’s just… quiet. Too quiet. My alarm still goes off at 6 AM sometimes, just from habit. And I wake up and for a split second, I think “Okay, what’s on the schedule for mom today?” And then I remember. And it’s like a punch in the gut. But not because I miss *that*. I don’t miss that part. I miss… I don’t know. Being needed? Having a purpose? I walked into the kitchen today and almost called Dr. Miller’s office. Just out of nowhere. To reschedule an appointment that doesn’t exist anymore. My hand was literally hovering over the phone. And I just stared at it. Like I was looking at a stranger’s hand. What am I even doing? My kids are grown. Both married. They call once a week, maybe. To check in. “How are you holding up, Dad?” They mean well. I tell them I’m fine. “Taking it easy.” “Catching up on sleep.” But it’s a lie. I’m not fine. I’m just… here. In this huge, empty place. Staring at the city lights. Wishing I had a new routine. Any routine. Even the old one. God, I must sound like a lunatic. I probably am. I just wanted to get it out. This feeling. This… nothingness. Everyone expects me to be happy now. Free. And I am. Sort of. But it’s not what I thought it would be. It’s not peace. It’s just… space. Too much space. And I don’t know what to do with it. Or with myself.