I dunno why I’m even typin this out. It’s dumb. Just… I had all this time lately, you know? Someone passed. It was a lot. Years. And then… quiet. Too quiet. My kids are grown, doin their thing. So I thought, okay, good. Do something for me. Something nice. So I offered to help with that craft thing. I sew. I’m good at it. Been doing it my whole life. I figured I’d help people with their stitches or somethin. Maybe show ’em how to fix a hem. Make myself useful. That’s what I always did. They put me on boxes. Just… boxes. Openin 'em. Breakin 'em down. For hours. My back was killing me. My hands. I didn’t say anything. Just kept doing it. Like I always do. But inside… it felt stupid. Like, what’s the point? I felt like a kid again, like when my mom used to tell me to just sit down and be quiet. Like I wasn’t good enough for the real stuff. I know it’s dumb to feel like that. It’s just boxes. But it felt like… more. It’s just… who am I now? Without someone needin me for the big stuff. All that time, all that work, and now I’m just… opening boxes. It’s not what I thought it would be. This quiet. This *nothing*. I just wanted to feel useful again. And now I just feel… tired. And dumb for even caring about boxes. Like I SHOULD be grateful I can even do it. I just don’t know.