I really don't know why I'm writing this. I guess I just need to get it out somewhere where nobody knows me. (I mean, that's the whole point of these things, right? Total anonymity.) It's just... the way things are going. With my dad. And my brother. It makes you wonder about everything. About what people see, and what they want to see. And if those two things ever line up. Or if we're all just living in our own little bubbles, patting ourselves on the back for things that aren't even real. My dad's been sick for a while now. Getting worse. Hospice came in a few months ago. And it's... a lot. A lot of lifting, a lot of cleaning, a lot of remembering meds and appointments and just... being there. Day in, day out. I do it. Because someone has to. I mean, I don't work anymore. Haven't for years. (My kids are grown, but still, you know, it's not like I have a job to go to.) So it just sort of fell to me. And that's fine. I love my dad. He deserves to be comfortable. He deserves someone there. But then my brother, Mark. He lives a few hours away. "Busy," he always says. (I get it, he's got a big job, important stuff.) So he comes maybe once a month. Pops in for an hour or two. Brings a casserole from the grocery store. Sits there, talks to dad for a bit. And you know what? Everyone thinks he's a SAINT. My dad, my mom (she's kinda frail herself, not really able to help with the physical stuff), our cousins. "Oh, Mark is SO good for coming all this way!" "Such a wonderful son." My mom even told me, just yesterday, "It means so much to your father when Mark visits." And I just... stood there. Holding the bucket I'd just used to clean up dad's accident. It makes me feel so... small. And kinda stupid for feeling that way. Like, I KNOW I'm doing the work. I know what's real. But it's like nobody else sees it. Or they see it and it just doesn't COUNT the same way. Because I'm HERE. I'm just the one who's always here. And he's the one who makes the "effort." It's not fair. I hate even saying that. It sounds whiny. But it's true. Sometimes I just want to SCREAM. What about ME? What about my effort? And the worst part is, I don't even know what I want. Do I want praise? A medal? For everyone to suddenly realize how much I do? I don't know. It feels kinda pathetic to even want that. To need that. But it's like a little piece of me is shrinking every time someone talks about how "dedicated" my brother is. And I worry. I worry about what people will remember later. When he's gone. Who will they say was "there"? Probably not me. Probably the one who showed up once a month with a store-bought pie. And that just feels... wrong. Deep down, it feels really, really wrong.