I don't know why I’m even writing this down, it’s not like anyone can fix it. It’s just… it’s been months now. Months. And it used to be so loud in our house, you know? Like, the kind of loud where you almost can’t hear yourself think but it’s a good loud. Kids, grandkids, usually a couple of their friends, my sister would pop over, sometimes her husband, everyone talking over each other, laughing, the clatter of plates, forks scraping, just… alive. And now? Now it’s just the two of us. My husband and me. And it’s so quiet I can hear the refrigerator hum. It’s a new fridge too, got it last year, fancy French doors. (We needed a bigger one for all the food when everyone was here.) Now it’s just… empty. And quiet. We eat dinner, usually something simple, because what’s the point of cooking a big meal for two people? And we just sit there. He’ll ask me how my day was, and I’ll tell him, usually about some idea I had for a new sculpture or how the light was hitting the oak tree just right this afternoon, and he’ll just nod. And then it’s my turn to ask him, and he’ll say, "Same old," or "Nothing much," and then we just… eat. In silence. And I hate it. I hate it so much it makes my teeth hurt. (Is that weird? My teeth hurt from the quiet.) It’s like there’s a wall between us now, this big invisible wall made of all the things we’re not saying. Or maybe it’s just made of me. Because I know it’s me. I do. This is the part where I probably sound like a villain in a bad movie, but it’s true. It was always my dream to make art, to live for my art, even if it meant not having a steady paycheck. My husband, bless his practical soul, he was always so good about it. Never complained, even when things were tight. He worked his boring office job, made sure we had enough, and I got to chip away at my weird metal sculptures and paint my abstract canvases. And when the kids were little, it was great because I was home, I was there for them, even if I was covered in paint or welding soot half the time. And then they grew up, and they all have these… these *normal* jobs. You know? Accountants and teachers and one even works at a bank. And they’re doing well. They’re doing REALLY well. And I guess… I guess I always thought they’d appreciate the unconventional parent, the one who taught them to look at things differently. The one who followed her passion, even when it didn't make sense to anyone else. I thought that would be my legacy, almost. That they’d see me as this inspiring, free-spirited artist. But then last Christmas, my oldest, she made a comment, just a throwaway thing, about how her dad always worked so hard to "keep the roof over their heads" while "Mom was busy with her… hobbies." Hobbies. She called my life’s work hobbies. And it just… it got stuck in my head. And then the others started saying similar things, little things, about how they wished we’d had more "stability." Stability. Like I robbed them of it. And now they don’t come around as much. They’re busy, they have their own lives, their own "stable" families. They used to say they loved coming home because it was "chaotic but fun." Now I think they just want… quiet. Like what we have every night now. And my husband, he doesn’t say anything, but I see the way he looks at me sometimes. This sad, disappointed look. Like he finally realized he married a pipe dream. And I just… I don’t know how to get the noise back. The good noise. I just wanted to make beautiful things, you know? And now I’m just making silence.