I feel awful saying this, truly awful, but sometimes when I’m sitting there, holding her hand, watching her breath, I feel… relieved. Not in a bad way, not like I want her to go, just that the end is coming, and with it, maybe some sort of… peace? And that’s a terrible thing to think, I know, especially when it’s your own mother, your *amma*, who literally gave up everything for us, for me really. She came here with nothing, just a suitcase and a prayer, and she worked her fingers raw so I could have more than she did. And I did have more, I guess, in some ways. A life making art, even if it barely pays the bills, even if she never really understood why I couldn’t just get a “proper” job. Like a nurse, or an accountant, something that would give me a pension, real security. She always worried about that, my future. And now I’m 59, almost 60, and I’m taking care of her, and her future is… well. It’s almost over. And that’s the part that really guts me, because I should be heartbroken, utterly devastated, but there’s this other feeling, this flicker of… freedom? Like when she’s gone, maybe I can finally just… be. Not just the dutiful daughter, the one who always comes home, the one who tried to explain why painting was important, why it wasn’t just a hobby. Maybe then I can finally afford that little studio apartment I always wanted, the one with the big windows and the light, you know? The light is so important. I never really had that here, always felt a bit hemmed in, like the walls were closing in, ever since Papa died and it was just the two of us. It became this silent obligation, always there, always needing me. And I loved her, I truly did, but it was also… heavy. So heavy. And then I feel this wave of guilt, crashing over me, because she’s lying there, so frail, and I’m thinking about… light. And space. And my art. It just feels so selfish, so incredibly selfish. Who thinks things like this? What kind of daughter am I? I should be cherishing every single second, every breath, every memory. And I am, I really am, but then there’s this other thought, always lurking, always whispering. Like a small, dark bird in the back of my mind. And I don’t know how to make it stop. I just… I just hope she doesn’t feel it, doesn’t sense this awful, complicated mess inside me. I just want her to be peaceful. And maybe, in a way, I want that for myself too. But I’ll never admit that to anyone, ever. Not out loud. Just here.