I don't know if this even counts as a confession, I mean it's not like I actually *did* anything, just... felt something, which I guess is almost worse sometimes? I was just scrolling through Instagram, you know, late at night, because what else is there to do when your toddler has finally, blessedly, passed out after a week of snot and coughs and basically just being a tiny, angry, germ-covered limpet? And it's been raining for DAYS. Like, actual days. The kind of grey, drippy, soul-sucking rain that makes you wonder if the sun ever actually existed or if that was just a fever dream from your youth. My best friend, bless her heart, is on some gorgeous tropical island. And her photos. Oh my god, her photos. Turquoise water, white sand, drinks with little umbrellas. She looks so relaxed. Happy. And I'm sitting there, in my oldest sweatpants, smelling vaguely of stale milk and Vicks VapoRub, looking at my sick kid's half-eaten banana on the coffee table. And I just... I don't know. I found myself really, really liking those photos. Like, DOUBLE tapping them with a ferocity that felt almost... aggressive. Not in a mean way, not for *her*, she deserves it, she really does. But I kept thinking, "man, I really WISH I was there instead of here." And then the thought came, and this is the bad part, the part I feel guilty about. I thought, for just a second, "I wish *she* was here, dealing with this, and *I* was there." Which is just... AWFUL, right? To wish your best friend was miserable so you could be happy? I mean, I don't even — whatever. It’s just a thought. I've always had this idea, you know, that I'd be creating things. Big, important things. I went to art school, remember? For like, a hot minute. Before reality, and bills, and a surprise baby (a very loved surprise baby, just to be clear!), kind of steamrolled that whole plan. And now I'm 60 next year, and I'm a stay-at-home mom again, which is lovely, it really is, but sometimes I just look at those vacation pictures and think about all the things I didn't do, all the things I'm not doing, and then I feel guilty for even thinking that because I *have* this life, this family, and I should be grateful. And I *am*! Mostly. But then the rain hits the window again, and the humidifier is bubbling in the corner, and I just... I just liked those pictures a little too much, I think. Maybe I liked them with a tiny bit of resentment mixed in. Is that bad? Probably. Definitely.