I don't know if this even counts as a confession, really. It’s more like… I don’t know. A vent, maybe? I just keep replaying it, every single day, every day, and I don't know who else to talk to about it. Not out here, anyway. Everyone knows everyone. Small town, you know. Nothing stays quiet. I think maybe I’m angry. I don’t know if it’s at them, or the situation, or me. Probably me, honestly. For letting it go on like this. For not saying anything. For just… doing it. Every night. Because that’s what I do. I just do it. It starts, I guess, when I get home from practice. Another late night, another long bus ride back from some away game, or just the usual extra laps for conditioning. I’m dead tired, muscles aching, mind still buzzing with plays and drills and the sheer exhaustion of trying to balance a half-dozen AP classes with two varsity sports. I walk in the door, drop my bag, and immediately, it starts. "What's for dinner?" Or, "I'm hungry!" From Lily, or Noah, or sometimes both at once. They're just kids, I know. Six and eight. They don’t know any better. But where are the others? That’s what gets me, I think. My older sister, Sarah, she’s almost nineteen. She’s "out with friends." Which means who knows where, doing who knows what, won't be home until after dark, probably closer to midnight. And Mark, he's seventeen. He’s "at work." Which is a joke. He sweeps floors at the hardware store for a few hours and then he’s off with his friends too. I think maybe they just go cruising up and down Main Street, or park down by the old bridge. Doing nothing, just… being out. So it’s me. Every single day. I go to the fridge, which is usually… well, it’s usually not much. Not much that a six and eight-year-old would want, anyway. My mom, she tries. She really does. But she works two jobs, cleaning houses and then shifts at the diner. And my dad… well, he works too, but he’s gone before the sun comes up and usually not back until after the kids are asleep. So the groceries are… sporadic. Last night, it was chicken thighs. Frozen solid. And some potatoes. And I just stood there, staring at them, for what felt like an eternity. And Lily tugs on my shirt, "I’m SO hungry, can we have mac and cheese? Please?" And Noah, bless his heart, pipes up with, "Yeah, mac and cheese is way better." And I just wanted to SCREAM. I wanted to just throw the chicken across the kitchen. I wanted to sit down on the floor and cry. But I didn’t. I never do. I took out the big pot. Got the water boiling for the macaroni. Found the box of Kraft in the back of the pantry, tucked behind some ancient cans of green beans. And as the water boiled, I started chopping the potatoes, thin and even, for roasting. Because I know they like those. And I unwrapped the chicken, still mostly frozen, and started to season it anyway, with the garlic powder and paprika I know they like. And I just kept moving. My hands just kept moving. And I remember looking out the window, at the last sliver of sun disappearing behind the old oak tree in Mrs. Peterson’s yard. And I could practically hear the laughter of other kids, my age, probably, driving around, doing nothing, just… living. And I’m in here, making mac and cheese and chicken for kids who aren’t even my kids, because no one else is. Every single night. And then Sarah calls, from her car, speakerphone, I can hear the music blasting. "Hey, what are you guys having for dinner?" Casual, like she just happened to think of it. And I say, "Mac and cheese, chicken." And she goes, "Oh, nice! Save me some! I’ll be home later." And I just wanted to hang up. I wanted to say, “No. No, I won’t. You’re almost nineteen, make your own damn food.” But I didn’t. I just said, "Okay." Quietly. Because what else am I going to do? I don’t know if it’s the fact that no one ever asks me, "What do *you* want for dinner?" Or the way my shoulders ache from carrying the weight of it all, the sports, the school, the… the constant *being responsible*. Or maybe it’s just the smell of cheap cheese powder in my nose right now, at 2 AM, when everyone else is asleep and I’m just… here. Still fuming. Still doing it. Every single day. Every day. And I don’t know how to stop. Or if I even can.