You ever just… you ever just feel like a ghost? Like, you’re there, you’re doing all the things, but nobody actually SEES you. Just what you do for them. Every single day. Every day it’s the same goddamn thing. Get the kids up, make the breakfast nobody eats, clean up the mess. Then it’s "Daddy, can I have juice?" "Daddy, read this." "Daddy, watch me, watch me!" All day. And then my mom calls, "Did you remember to pick up my pills? The ones for my… you know." Like I’m her personal assistant or something. And my wife, she gets home, "Rough day, honey," and then she’s on her phone. Right? Like I had a spa day here or something. Yesterday was one of those days. You know the ones. The kids were just… a lot. My youngest, bless her heart, she just decided gravity was a personal attack. Everything went flying. Everything. And my oldest, he’s hitting that age where he just kinda stares at you, like you’re the dumbest person alive for suggesting he wear pants. My mom called, again, about the pills. And then she started in on my brother. AGAIN. How he never calls her. How he never helps. And I’m sitting there, holding a screaming kid, wiping yogurt off the wall, thinking, *who helps ME?* Who asks *me* if I need anything? So yeah, the park. Playdate. All the other moms are there, looking all put-together, talking about organic snacks and kindergarten applications. And I’m supposed to be the "involved dad," the "cool dad." Right? So I get the kids ready. Get their shoes on, snacks packed, sunscreen slathered on like it’s warpaint. And I’m just… tired. Bone tired. Like my bones are tired of holding me up. So I grab one of those reusable water bottles, the big metal ones. You know the kind. And I go to the cabinet. And I pour. Just… a little. A couple shots. Not even enough to really feel it, just… just enough to take the edge off. To make the screaming sound a little less sharp. To make the other parents’ polite smiles feel a little less like judgment. And then we go. To the park. And I push the swings. And I spot them on the slide. And I make small talk with the other parents. "Oh, little Timmy is so busy today!" And I smile. And I nod. And I pretend that the water bottle in my hand is just… water. And for a little while, it works. The sun is warm. The kids are laughing. And the burn in my throat, just a little, makes it feel like I’m actually out here, actually doing something for myself, even if it’s just this. This tiny, secret thing. This one little thing that’s just for me. And then it’s time to go home. And it all starts over again. And you wonder how many more days you can do this. You just wonder.