I don’t know if this counts as a confession, not really. It’s not a big secret, not the way some of these really are. But I feel like I’m... a bad person. Or maybe just a terribly weak one. My mother, she’s almost 90 now. Sharp as a tack, most days, but she’s had a few falls, and the memory, well, the episodic memory isn’t what it was. And she’s so… demanding. Not in a mean way, usually. Just. Persistent. She needs me to move her things, or find her glasses (they’re always on her head), or make her tea just so, and it’s constant. I was a teacher, you know, for almost forty years. I thought I was good at patience. Apparently, I used it all up on teenagers. I keep thinking about assisted living. Just a little place, where she’d have people around her, professionals, and I could visit. Be her daughter again, instead of her… personal assistant. It’s a terrible thought, I know. My mother gave up so much for me. My father, too, before he passed. And when my ex-husband decided he preferred a younger, less-wrinkled model at 50, she was there. Even though her friends mostly took *his* side, because he was "charming," and I was "difficult." Whatever. I rebuilt. I did. But this… this feels different. It feels like I’m betraying her. Like I’m abandoning her. And the guilt… it’s like a physical thing, sometimes. A pressure in my chest. I dream about it. Her face, looking confused, or hurt. She’d say, "But why, darling? Aren't I good enough?" And I wouldn't have an answer. Because she *is* good enough. She’s my mother. But I just… I can’t. I think maybe I’m just selfish. I retired, I thought I’d finally have time for myself, maybe pick up painting again. Silly, I know. I just… I don’t know what to do. This is stupid but... sometimes I actually laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. Here I am, a sixty-something woman, who taught children how to read for decades, and I’m terrified of my own mother. What a legacy.