I just… I fucked up. Like, really fucked up. My kids, they just left, right? Both of them, same year. One to State, one across the country. And the house… it’s so damn quiet. Too quiet. Like someone died, but nobody did. Or maybe something did. My marriage, it’s like living with a roommate, you know? A really polite, quiet roommate who sometimes asks if you want more coffee. That’s it. So yeah, I guess I was a bit lost. My whole purpose, gone. Just… poof. My mom, though. She’s getting worse. The Parkinson’s, it’s… not pretty. She falls. A lot. And she can’t remember things, not really. She needs someone there, honestly. A full-time aide. We talked about it. My brother, bless him, he’s got his own shit, kids, house, crazy job, so it’s mostly on me. And I knew. I knew what she needed. We looked at costs. It’s a lot. More than I really have in savings, sort of. But I could have made it work. I could have. Instead, I went to fucking Italy. ITALY. I saw a deal, an actual good deal, for a solo trip, flight and hotel, for like, two weeks. And it just… called to me. Florence. Venice. All that old stone, the art, the food. I just thought, maybe this is what I need. To feel something. To be someone again, not just Mom’s daughter, or a wife, or a mom to kids who don’t need me anymore. Just… me. For a bit. I booked it. Impulsive, I guess. Didn’t even tell anyone until after the fact. My husband just raised an eyebrow. My brother, he was like, "Really? Now?" And I just… brushed it off. Said I needed a break. Which, I mean, I *did*. But not like that. Not with that money. That money was for Mom. I know it was. The trip was… beautiful, I guess. I saw all the things. Ate all the pasta. Drank too much wine. I even met some cool people, other solo travelers. For a few days, I almost forgot. Almost. But then I’d be walking through some ancient piazza, watching the pigeons, and this pang would hit me. Hard. My mom, alone in her house, maybe trying to make herself tea and spilling it everywhere because her hands shake so bad. Or worse, falling again, and no one there to help her up. I called her, of course. Every couple of days. She’d say, "Oh, you’re still there?" Like I’d been gone for years, not days. Or she’d tell me the same story about a neighbor for the third time. And I’d just nod into the phone, tears kind of prickling behind my eyes, looking at some gorgeous fresco and feeling like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. I’d try to make myself enjoy it, really enjoy it, to justify the expense, the guilt. But it was like trying to smile with a toothache. The ache was always there. I got back last week. The house is still quiet. My husband is still a polite stranger. And my mom… she had another fall while I was gone. My brother found her. He didn’t say anything, not really. But the look in his eyes… I saw it. He didn’t have to say a word. He knows. And I know he knows. And I hate myself for it. Now I’m trying to figure out how to pay for the aide. Borrow from my brother, maybe? He’d do it. He’s a good guy. But the shame… it’s going to eat me alive. My savings are gone. Just… gone. Blown on gelato and museum tickets and a fleeting moment of pretending I didn’t have responsibilities. My mom deserves better. She deserves someone there. And I, her own daughter, chose… Florence. What kind of person does that? I don’t even know who I am anymore. Just a selfish, self-absorbed… fuck. It’s 2am. I can’t sleep. The quiet is deafening. And all I can hear is her voice, confused, asking where I am. And I was in fucking Italy. God, I’m such a mess. What do I do now? Like, really. What do I do now?