I don't know if this really counts as a confession, not in the way some of the younger people here write, but... I’ve been sitting on this for some time now. Years, maybe. It’s silly, I suppose, for a woman my age to be so concerned with appearances, but that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Being seen a certain way. Especially after you’ve retired, when you’re not really *seen* much at all, unless you make an effort. And I do make an effort, always have. I used to teach art, you see, for thirty-some years. Always felt a little… undervalued, I suppose. The "extra" subject. But I loved it. The children, the colours. Not so much the parents, sometimes. But then retirement came, and the quiet. And then the little family moved in next door. Three children. Always running, always shouting. And I, well, I’m good with children. Or I was. So when the mother, a sweet woman, really, just overwhelmed, asked if I could watch them for an hour, then another, then a whole afternoon, I just… said yes. It started so simply. "Just for a bit, Mrs. Miller, please?" And then, "Oh, you're SUCH a lifesaver." And I thought, yes, that’s me. The helpful one. The kind neighbour. They’d bring over a small plant sometimes, or a drawing. And I’d smile, and offer to watch them again, even when my back was aching, even when the noise was just a cacophony in my little cottage. I’d make them snacks, read stories, try to impose some semblance of order on the chaos, which is, I suppose, an exercise in futility with three small, spirited children. I’d try to teach them little things, how to hold a crayon properly, the names of different hues, but mostly it was just… containment. I think, maybe, I wanted to feel needed. After teaching, after the whole, you know, *structure* of it all disappeared. To be that person, the one who helps. The selfless one. But sometimes, when I’m alone afterwards, and my head is throbbing with the echo of their shouts, and the house is a disaster area of crumbs and scattered toys, I feel this deep, hollow ache. It’s exhaustion, of course. But it’s more than that. It’s a kind of self-deception, I think, a sort of performative altruism that's just… worn me thin. I don’t know how to stop now. They just expect it. And I keep saying yes. I keep smiling. And I just don't know why. Sometimes I think maybe it’s a form of maladaptive coping, this need to be perceived as indispensable. Or perhaps it's just plain foolishness. I don't know.