I just... I don't know what to do. My brother called me, like, a few days ago. Middle of the night for me, obviously, because he always forgets about time zones. Always. He's like, "Hey, just calling to tell you about Dad." And I'm immediately like, "What? What happened?" You know? Because that's how it is. Every single time. Something always happens. It's never just a casual call. Never. And he tells me Dad's forgetting things. Small stuff at first, then bigger stuff. Like, forgetting where he lives, forgetting my name for a second. My name. The one he literally helped name. He said Dad asked Mom, "Who's that girl on the phone?" when I called last week. And I just... I didn't know what to say. My brother, he's like, "You should probably come home." Just like that. Like it's a casual suggestion. Like I can just drop everything and fly halfway across the world. Just like that. I'm sitting here, staring at my laptop, trying to work, and all I can think about is Dad. And that call. It was like a punch to the gut. I just moved here, like, six months ago. Finally getting settled. Finally feeling like myself again, you know? After years of just... being Mom. Just being the person who cooks, cleans, wipes butts, breaks up fights over Paw Patrol. Every single day. Every day. For what felt like forever. And now this. I remember when I first moved. My kids were crying, my husband was doing that 'supportive but useless' thing, and I was just like, "I need to do this." I NEEDED to do this. For me. To remember who I was before "Mommy, I'm hungry!" or "Mommy, he hit me!" became the soundtrack of my life. And I did it. I actually did it. I packed everything up, we moved, and for the first time in years, I can actually have a quiet cup of coffee. I can read a book without interruption. I can think a thought that isn't about someone else's immediate needs. Is that selfish? Does everyone feel this? But now... Dad. And the guilt. It's like a heavy blanket that just dropped on me. I love my dad. He was always... he was always the calm one. The one who'd just listen. He wouldn't offer unsolicited advice, he wouldn't tell me what I 'should' be doing. He'd just listen. And make me laugh. He taught me how to ride a bike, how to skip rocks. He was always there. Always. And now he's forgetting. And I'm here. Thousands of miles away. Working this job that I actually like. This job that makes me feel like I have a purpose beyond folding laundry and making snacks. And I'm thinking, "Should I go?" My brother thinks I should. My mom, I know she wants me to. But she won't say it outright. She'll just sigh a lot on the phone. Do I owe it to them? To him? I keep picturing his face, you know? When he’s laughing. Or when he’s really concentrating on something. He has this little furrow in his brow. And now I’m picturing him confused. Lost. And it makes my stomach hurt. Like physically hurt. And I just want to cry. But I can't. Not here. Not now. Because if I start, I won't stop. And then I won't get any sleep. And then I'll be useless tomorrow. Again. So I just sit here. And I think about the tickets. And the money. And the disruption. To everything. To this new life I've finally started building. This life that feels like *mine*. And the other part of me, the one that still feels like that scared little kid, just wants to fly home, right now, and hug him. And tell him I'm here. And make sure he remembers me. But what if he doesn't? What if I go, and he just looks at me like I'm a stranger? Or worse, what if I go, and he's fine, and I just wasted all that time and money for nothing? What do I do? What do I actually do?