I was driving over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel last week, the one with the crazy long stretches over the water, and it was pouring rain. Not just a little sprinkle, I mean an absolute deluge, wipers on full speed couldn't keep up. You know the kind. My headlights were barely cutting through the spray, and all I could see was this gray curtain of water and the blackness of the bay below. And it happened again. That thought. My van, just... turning. A sharp, deliberate turn, right through the guardrail. Straight down into that cold, dark mess. It wasn't a sudden jolt or a fear reaction. More like a calm, almost gentle suggestion. *Just do it.* And honestly? For a solid minute, it felt like the most sensible thing I could do. The easiest way out. Then the image shifted, because of course it did. Who would feed the damn cats? Who would remember to give Eleanor her meds at exactly 7 AM and 7 PM, no matter what? Who would sit with her when she starts asking for her mother again, even though her mother's been gone for thirty years? Who would fight with the insurance company about that last ridiculous bill? Suddenly the water didn't look so inviting. Suddenly I was back in the driver's seat, gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles were white, muttering "Pull yourself together, you old fool" under my breath. As if I have a choice. As if I'm not tethered, absolutely lashed to this life by a million invisible ropes woven from responsibility and obligation. So I kept driving. White-knuckled and pissed off, I kept going. Because that's what I do. That's all I've ever done. Kept going. For everyone else. Always. The fantasy of just letting go, of the van plunging into the blackness… it’s a quick escape, isn’t it? A stupid, selfish thought, I know, I know. But sometimes, when I’m alone in the dark, and it’s pouring rain, and I’m so bone-tired I could scream, it just sounds… quiet. And quiet is something I haven't had in fifty years.