I don’t know if this even counts as a confession, really. It’s more… I don’t know. A feeling, I guess. I just retired, you see. From teaching. I was an art teacher for, oh, thirty-something years. And everyone keeps saying how wonderful it must be, how I finally have all this free time, how I can just *relax*. And I try. I really do. I sit in my garden – it’s a lovely garden, I put a lot of work into it over the years – and I try to just *be*. But it’s… quiet. TOO quiet. The bells, the chatter, the kids arguing over paintbrushes, even the terrible school lunches, I miss it. I miss feeling… needed. Like I had a purpose. Now I just feel like a discarded paintbrush, all dried up and useless. (That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it? Sorry.) I mean, I wanted to retire, I think. For a long time, I did. I always wanted to paint more, you know? My own stuff. I have all these sketchbooks full of ideas, but I never really had the time, not *real* time, when I wasn’t lesson planning or grading or talking a kid through a meltdown. And now I have it. All of it. And I just… stare at the canvas. It’s blank. My mind is blank. Like my identity was tied to those kids, to those bells, to making sure they understood what chiaroscuro was, and without that, I’m just… nobody. I mean, I don’t even — whatever. It’s like I spent my whole life being defined by something, and now it’s just GONE. And the worst part, I think, is that I feel GUILTY. For feeling this way. Like I’m ungrateful for having all this… freedom. People work their whole lives for this, right? To not have to answer to anyone, to do whatever they want. And here I am, wishing for a timetable, wishing for a classroom full of messy, enthusiastic kids. I just… I don’t know who I am without it. Or if I’m even worth anything anymore. I thought I’d feel… something else. Something lighter. But it’s just this heavy, empty feeling in my chest. Like I’ve lost a limb, or something. And I keep thinking, was that it? Was that my one shot at making a difference? And did I even do enough?