You ever have one of those moments, you know, at a big family gathering, where everyone’s all smiles and congratulations, and you’re just… playing a role? Like, you’re present, you’re smiling, you’re even genuinely happy for the bride and groom, but there’s this undercurrent, this *thing* you’re actively avoiding. For me, it was my grandmother’s gaze at my cousin’s wedding last weekend. She’s got this way of looking at you, like she can see right through your polite veneer, straight into the choices you've made that she… well, doesn't quite approve of. It was a beautiful wedding, really. All the bells and whistles, open bar, the works. Everyone was buzzing about how Mark finally found someone, like it was a huge relief, you know? And then Grandma, bless her heart, cornered me by the buffet line, holding a plate piled high with mini quiches. She didn’t even have to say anything specific, just that look, and then this sigh. "Such a lovely young woman, Mark's wife," she said, trailing off, and then, "It’s so nice to see everyone settling down, getting on with things." And you just *know* what that means. It’s not a question, it’s a statement about your own life, or lack thereof, in her estimation. And the thing is, you spend your whole life, or at least I did, trying to climb that ladder, you know? Performance reviews, client presentations, hitting those quarterly targets. Always pushing, always striving. And for what? To be able to say, “Yeah, I chose my career. I built something *I* wanted.” But then you get to a certain age, and everyone else is talking about grandchildren and backyard barbecues, and suddenly your corner office feels less like an achievement and more like… a topic of sympathetic conversation. Like you missed some memo. Like you prioritized the wrong thing. So there I was, in my really expensive, perfectly tailored dress, pretending to be utterly captivated by the flower arrangements, just to avoid her eyes. Because I *know* what she thinks. And a part of me, the part that still wants to please her, still feels a twinge of… not regret, exactly, but something close to it. Like, yeah, I made my choices. I stood my ground. But then you’re in a room full of people celebrating conventional happiness, and you just feel like the odd one out. Like a quiet, well-dressed disappointment. And you almost want to shout, "But I *liked* my career! I was good at it!" But you don't. You just smile and nod and wonder if that quiche is going to give you heartburn.