I don't know why I feel like this. It's wrong. I know it's wrong. Someone leaves, and you're supposed to feel… something else. Raw, maybe. Empty. I prepared for that. I really did. Spent years preparing for it, in a way. The calls, the hospital, the endless, endless days of watching someone fade. You pour everything into it. Every ounce. And then it's over. And for a split second – just a flicker – there was this quiet… peace. Like a weight lifting. A physical thing. I felt it. And that's the bad part, right? Because they were my parent. The only one left. And I loved them. I did. Even when that thing with my art happened, all those years ago. The one where they just… didn’t understand. Or wouldn’t. Said I needed to be practical. That being an artist wasn’t a life. That money thing, it always hung over us. Still does, frankly. But I stayed. I was there. Through it all. The mess, the exhaustion, the quiet goodbyes. I did my duty. I think I did a good job. But that little bit of peace… it felt like a betrayal. Like a secret I shouldn’t have. And now I’m just here, in this quiet house, looking at all their things. All the things I couldn’t get rid of because they meant something to someone. And I just feel… flat. Not sad. Not relieved. Just… flat. And a little bit guilty for not feeling worse. What kind of person is that? What kind of legacy is this? I just don't know what to do with this feeling. Or where it came from.