I don't even know what I'm doing here, I guess. I just... I needed to type it out. Somewhere. It's 2:17 AM and my dad is finally asleep, for now. And I just spent maybe ten minutes, literally, staring at his pill organizer for tomorrow. Seven AM, nine AM, two PM, six PM. Like, little plastic boxes, you know? And each one has... six pills. Seven. Depending on the day. One for his heart, obviously. Another for his kidneys. The fluid one. The blood pressure. Then the stupid nerve pain one that makes him kinda... floaty. And the blood thinner, gotta be careful with that one, I guess. And then, like, three different vitamins because the doctor said so. SEVEN PILLS. In one slot. And it’s my job. All of them. And I’m just like, one wrong move, right? One missed pill. Or, like, the wrong dosage. He can’t remember what day it is half the time, let alone if he took the tiny white one or the slightly-bigger-but-still-white one. I write it all down, check it off on the stupid chart, but what if I get it wrong? What if *I* forget? Or what if I mix up the Tuesday with the Wednesday? There’s a Tuesday and a Wednesday, and a Thursday too, because of the blood thinner that’s only every other day, and if I screw THAT up… I mean, he’s already been to the ER like three times this year. For, like, *stuff*. Not even pill stuff, just regular old person stuff. And I just… I can’t do it again. I can’t call 911 again, or sit in that waiting room again for seven hours just watching the clock. I just *can't*. My phone is always on full volume, always next to me. Even when I’m kinda half-asleep on the couch, watching some dumb show, I’m listening for him. For a cough. For a thump. For the water running when it shouldn’t be. And it’s not even just him, it’s my kids too, still small enough that I’m doing the school run and making the lunches and trying to remember what day it is for library books. And everyone’s like, "Oh, you're so strong!" or "You're doing great!" No. I’m not. I’m just waiting for the one thing. The one tiny mistake. And it’s gonna be my fault. It’s gotta be my fault, because who else is gonna take responsibility? Nobody, that’s who. Just me and this stupid little plastic box full of potential disasters. And my brain just... won't shut up. It just WON'T.