I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just… I don’t understand it. I went to see Dr. Petrov today. My old advisor. In hospice. And I walked in, and he was lying there, barely moving. His eyes, though. Still sharp. But fading. He used to be this force, this absolute TITAN of intellect. We’d spend hours, days, just tearing apart some obscure sociological theory, arguing about Foucault, debating the efficacy of social programs. And he’d push me. Really push me. Every single time I’d try to take the easy way out, he’d just look at me and say, “Is that all you have? Is that truly your best?” And it always made me try harder. ALWAYS. He saw something in me, something I barely saw in myself. Now… I sat there. He looked at me, really looked, for a long minute. And he managed to whisper, “Still… thinking?” And I just… I couldn’t. I couldn't launch into some brilliant exposition on my dissertation, or the latest empirical data. I couldn't even manage a coherent thought about my actual work. My brain just felt… blank. Empty. I tried. I really did. I just said, "Yes, Dr. Petrov. Always." But it felt like a lie. A massive, crushing lie. Because the truth is, I spend every waking moment thinking about diaper changes, about grocery lists, about whether I remembered to switch the laundry. About which parent-teacher conference I have to reschedule for the third time. Every day. Every single day. And I watched him. This man who shaped my entire intellectual framework, who taught me how to *think*. And he’s just… slipping away. And I felt this… this incredibly sharp pang of loss. Like a bereavement. But it’s not just grief, not really. It’s… something else. Something much more acidic. Because part of me feels like I’m losing the only person who ever saw *me*, the actual intellectual, not just the caregiver. Not just the one who always picks up the pieces. Not just the one who makes sure everyone else is okay. And then I felt guilty. A wave of it, so intense it made my chest hurt. Guilty for thinking about myself, for feeling like this. For not being able to be fully present, fully *brilliant* for him, in his last moments. For not being the person he always believed I could be. I left, and I got in the car, and I just cried. Not for him, not really. Or not just for him. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. What is wrong with me that I feel like *this*? What is this feeling? Is it just deep, unexamined resentment? Or am I just a terrible, terrible person?