I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I mean I don’t even— whatever. Just need to get it out. Probably no one will even read it. Good. My mom passed in March. She was 92. And I was her only kid. So it was me, just me, taking care of her for… years. Like, since dad died, that was ten years ago. It felt like forever, every single day, every day. Doctors, meds, cooking, cleaning, just everything. She was a handful, you know? Always complaining, never happy. And I was always there. Always. Everyone said I was a saint. My cousins, my old friends, even the hospice nurse said I was amazing. "Such a good daughter." And I just... smiled. Because what else do you do? I was tired. Beyond tired. Wiped out. Every bone in my body just ached, all the time. I kept thinking, just hold on, just a little longer. And now it’s longer. But she’s gone. And I’m still tired. But it’s different now. This tired is… empty. Like a big hole where everything used to be. My husband, he’s good. He tries. "Let’s go for a walk," he says. "Let’s go to dinner." But I just… can’t. What’s the point? I used to have so much energy. I really did. Before all this. I had my own life. My kids are grown, out of the house, doing their own things. Good for them. But now I look at my own house and it’s just… stuff. My stuff. No one really needs me anymore. And it’s weird. I thought I’d feel free. Truly free. Finally get to do all the things I put off. But I don’t want to do anything. I just sit here. Staring. At the TV, at the wall, out the window. Nothing appeals to me. Nothing. I used to love reading. Now I can’t even focus on a page. I start to read and my mind just drifts off. To what? I don't even know. Just… nowhere. And the quiet. OH GOD THE QUIET. It’s deafening. For so long there was always something. My mom calling for me, the beeping of her machines, the TV on loud because she was hard of hearing. Now it’s just… quiet. And my own thoughts. And they’re not good thoughts. They’re just… blank. I feel so guilty for feeling like this. She was my mom. I loved her. I did. But part of me, a big part, is relieved. And then I hate myself for that. How can I be relieved that my mom is gone? I mean, she was 92, she lived a long life. But still. It feels wrong. And then I think, I’m 70. Seventy. What am I supposed to do now? Be happy? Go travel? Everyone says, "Now you can enjoy your life!" But enjoy what? I feel too old. Too tired. Too… I don’t know. Like the world moved on and I got stuck. I should be stronger than this. I should bounce back. People my age, they’re still doing things. Important things. And I’m just here. Existing. Every single day. And I can’t even pretend anymore. It’s too much.