I feel… wrong. My father moved into hospice last week. Frontotemporal dementia. It’s been years of… decline. Not gradual, more like a cliff. My mother, bless her, she’s older, speaks very little English, and the expectation, from the family back home, from *him* even before, was always that I would handle it. The finances, the medical appointments, the outbursts, the paranoia. I’m a senior associate at a firm. My entire career trajectory, my future, it felt like it was crumbling. He didn’t recognize me most days. He’d accuse me of stealing his savings, which I was managing. He’d yell things I won’t repeat. Things that cut. And now he’s gone. To hospice. Medicated. Peaceful. And I feel RELIEF. Not just a little, a tidal wave. It’s been… quiet. I slept through the night for the first time in maybe five years. I actually ate dinner without being on alert. I even went to the gym. I should feel grief. Or guilt. Or at least… something heavier. My mother is weeping, quietly, the way she always does. My aunts call me, reminding me to be strong for her, for the family. But all I feel is this terrifying lightness. Like a weight has been lifted, and I'm floating. Is this sociopathy? Secondary gain from suffering? I look at my calendar, completely empty of geriatric consults, caregiver support groups, emergency calls from the neighbor about him wandering. And there's this space. This VAST, EMPTY space. And I don’t know what to do with it. Or why I feel so… free. I know he’s dying. And I’m relieved. What kind of person is that?