I just… I don’t understand people sometimes. I really don’t. You spend your whole damn life doing everything by the book, working hard, saving up, so you can have that little slice of the American dream. And then what? What the hell happens then? (No, seriously, tell me. I’m old, I’ve seen a lot, but this one still baffles me.) We finally bought it, you know. The house. After years of apartments, then a smaller place that felt like we were always tripping over each other, we got the house. Big backyard. Enough room for the grandkids to run wild when they visit. (Which, let’s be honest, isn’t as often as I’d like, but that’s a whole other story.) It’s in one of those neighborhoods, you know, with the perfect lawns and the little free libraries and everybody waves when you drive by. We worked our asses off for this. To be part of *that*. To finally feel like we’d made it. And now here we sit. My husband and I. In our beautiful living room. Dead silent. The quiet is... deafening. It’s not peaceful. It’s just empty. We look out at that big backyard, the one we dreamed about, and it just feels… disconnected. We see people walking their dogs, kids riding bikes. We wave. They wave back. But it never goes further than that. Nobody stops. Nobody rings the doorbell to say hello, or invites us over for a backyard BBQ. (Are those even a thing anymore? Or is that just movies?) It’s like we’re on the outside looking in, even though we’re right here. Inside the damn fence. All those years I spent worrying about everyone else, making sure my mother was taken care of after Dad passed, then making sure the kids had everything they needed, then helping out with the grandkids… My whole life was about *doing* for others. And now? Now I have some time, now I could actually maybe have a conversation with someone who isn’t asking me for something or telling me how much they appreciate my 'help' (which usually means doing it for them). And it’s just… crickets. It’s like we moved to a new planet. Everyone here is nice enough, I guess. Polite. But there’s no… spark. No community. I thought this was what you got when you worked hard your whole life. A sense of belonging. A place. But it feels colder than a miser’s heart. And what are we supposed to do now? Just sit here and stare at the walls? (Or at each other, which honestly, after fifty years, sometimes feels worse.) I don't know what the hell I was expecting, but it wasn't this. This quiet. This feeling of being utterly alone in a sea of perfectly manicured lawns. It just wasn't this.