I don’t know why I’m even writing this, it’s probably just because I can’t sleep and my brain won’t shut up, which it never does anymore, especially not since Mom got worse. It’s just… it’s been a long time. A really, really long time. I remember, I must have been in my twenties, still trying to make a go of it with my art, you know? Painting and pottery, just trying to get a little gallery space or a craft fair booth. And Mom, she was always… not *against* it, exactly, but you could tell she thought it was a phase. A nice hobby, sure, but not real work. And then my son came along, and my retail job, which was supposed to be temporary, became… well, it’s been thirty years now. Thirty years of selling things I don’t care about to people who don’t care either. And it was fine, mostly, I mean, you do what you have to do for your kids, right? That’s what I told myself. That’s what everyone tells themselves. But then Mom got sick, and it wasn’t just a little bit sick, it was the kind of sick that means someone has to be there, all the time. And my brothers and sisters, bless their hearts, they live far away, or they have demanding jobs, or their kids are still young, or… whatever it is. They visit, once a year, usually around Christmas or Easter, and they bring gifts, and they ask how Mom’s doing, and they tell me I’m DOING SUCH A GOOD JOB. And then they go back to their lives. And I’m still here. Still getting up at 5 am to get her medicine ready, still going to work, still coming home to make dinner, still… everything. And I see her, sometimes, when she’s really lucid, looking at me, and I wonder what she sees. Does she see the tired? Does she see the resentment, even though I try so hard to hide it? Does she see the girl who wanted to paint? And this is the thing, the real thing, the awful thing, the reason I can’t sleep. Sometimes, just for a split second, when I’m spoon-feeding her or helping her to the bathroom, I think… I think I wish it would just be over. Not in a mean way, not in a *bad* way, but just… over. For her, mostly. For her suffering. But also, I guess, for me. Because then maybe I could… I don’t even know what I’d do. What do you do after you’ve spent your whole life taking care of everyone else? There’s no undo button. And I feel so guilty even thinking it, like I’m a terrible person, because she’s my mom. And I love her. I do. But I’m just so tired. And there’s this little voice, always, that whispers, *what about you?* And I just… I don’t have an answer for that voice anymore.