I don't know why I’m writing this, or maybe I do… it’s late, you know, and my mind just keeps going over the same stuff, like a broken record player. My mom passed away last month. It was expected, I guess. She’d been sick for years, since I was a teenager really, but it got properly bad like, five, six years ago. That’s when the calls started getting… heavier. Like, “I can’t do this anymore, son,” or “I wish God would just take me.” And then I’d get the calls from the neighbors, or the social worker, or sometimes even the home health aide saying she hadn’t eaten, or she’d fallen again. And I’m hundreds of miles away, stuck in a cubicle, pretending to care about quarterly reports while my whole world is just… crumbling, you know? What do you even DO with that? I’d go visit, of course. Every holiday, every vacation day I could scrape together. The drive was always brutal. Ten, twelve hours, just me and my thoughts, going over every conversation, every argument, every time I'd snapped at her for something stupid. Or for something not stupid, like when she’d spend all her disability money on those stupid infomercial gadgets instead of, I don't know, food. And I’d try to talk to her, like, “Mom, we talked about this,” and she’d just get that look, that sad-dog look, and I’d just… give up. Every single time. My dad left when I was little, and it was always just us. I guess I felt like I owed her something. A LOT of somethings. Everything, maybe. The last few years were… a lot. She needed a lot of stuff. A ramp for the house, a special bed, medicine that cost an arm and a leg even with insurance, which I helped with, obviously. Always helping. I sent money every month. Had to cut back on my own stuff, put off buying a house, you know. Life. And every time I called, it was the same thing: “I’m in pain, son,” or “I’m lonely.” And I’d try to cheer her up, or find a solution, but there wasn't one. Not really. Just… managing. And the guilt. Oh my God, the guilt. For not being there, for not being enough, for not fixing it. For sometimes, in the dead of night, wishing it would just… end. And now it has. Ended. And I feel… nothing. Or not nothing, but it’s not the grief everyone expects. It’s more like a quiet relief. Like I’ve been holding my breath for decades, and now I can finally let it out. I went to her house to clear it out, and it was still full of all that junk she bought, all those "miracle cures." I just stood there, looking at it all, and it felt so… pointless. All that stress, all that struggle. And I just wanted to scream. Or cry. But I just… didn’t. I’m still sending money to cover the funeral costs and some outstanding bills. That part hasn’t changed. But the calls have stopped. The dread in my stomach before I answer the phone is gone. And I feel bad for feeling good about that. Like, I’m a monster, right? She was my mother. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I just… breathe. And it’s different now. Lighter. And that’s a terrible thing to admit, isn’t it?