I don't know if this even counts as a confession, really. More of a… realization, I suppose. A quiet, chilly thing that settled over me a few weeks after the papers were signed. After fifty-three years together, and then… nothing. Just me, in the house that was mostly *his* taste, even though I painted the living room that terrible ochre yellow he always loved. I think maybe it was last Tuesday, around 2:17 AM. I was trying to remember what I actually *liked* to do, just for myself. Not for him, not for us, not for the image we projected to the garden club or his golf buddies. And I… I couldn't think of a single thing. Not one. It’s an odd sort of cognitive dissonance, I think, to look back over fifteen years and realize every single preference, every hobby, every Sunday afternoon pursuit was meticulously curated to align with someone else’s perceived enjoyment. Not even *his* enjoyment, necessarily, but *my interpretation* of what would make him happy, or at least content enough not to complain. I remember signing up for that pottery class – Beginner’s Wheel, Tuesdays at 7 PM – because he mentioned, once, that he liked the way my grandmother’s vases looked. So I made vases, dozens of them, none of them really mine. They’re all packed in boxes now, I think. Or the birdwatching. He always said he found it relaxing. I spent hours squinting through binoculars at finches and sparrows, trying to differentiate a White-throated Sparrow from a Song Sparrow, just so I could report back with some detail, some tidbit that might spark a moment of connection. A shared interest. But it wasn't *my* interest. Not really. I’m 76 now, and divorced. And I’m sitting here, sometimes, just… bewildered. What did *I* want to do? What did *I* genuinely like? The truth is, I think maybe I just wanted to paint again. Big, messy, abstract canvases. The kind of art he called “meaningless splashes.” And I haven’t picked up a brush in… oh, it must be sixty years. Longer than I was married. I feel a sort of… gentle ache when I think about it. Not anger, exactly. Just a profound, quiet sadness. Like I’ve lost a whole person, but the person I’ve lost is myself. And I don't know how to find her. Or if there's even anything left to find.