I was at a funeral last week, for my mother’s cousin, a woman I’d met maybe three times in seventy-two years, and there I was, sitting in the sixth row, on the aisle, because Martha’s oxygen tank needed extra room and someone had to hold her hand, and the pastor, this new young one, was talking about a life well-lived, and the quiet dignity of a woman who always put others first, and all I could think about, every single second, was the drive home, and the traffic on I-5, and if I could cut through the back roads around Fall City to shave off fifteen minutes, because I absolutely HAD to be home by six, not six-fifteen, not six-oh-five, but six o’clock exactly, because that’s when the visiting nurse leaves, and if I’m not there, standing in the doorway, exactly at six, then Martha gets agitated, and then she starts with the questions, and the pacing, and the ringing of the little bell until I want to smash it with a hammer. And I felt, I don’t know, just a deep wave of pure, unadulterated shame, because this woman was dead, and her children were weeping, and her husband looked like a ghost, and here I was, mentally mapping out every single turn, every stoplight, every potential delay, down to the second, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with Martha’s endless stream of panicked inquiries about whether I remembered her pills, and her supper, and if I’d called her sister, even though her sister passed away five years ago and I remind her every single day. And I kept glancing at my watch, a tiny, almost imperceptible flick of the wrist, every ten minutes, and the pastor kept talking about legacy and love and remembering, and I just wanted him to SHUT UP so I could get in my car and go. And I’m not proud of it, not at all, but it’s just the constant. Every single day, every single hour, it’s all about what needs to be done, and who needs what, and what time, and how much, and making sure the doctor’s office doesn’t close before I can pick up the new prescription, and remembering to call the insurance company for the third time about the wheelchair repair, and checking the mail, and getting the groceries, and remembering to do the laundry before the pile gets too high, and making sure there’s enough juice, and enough bread, and if I forget one thing, ONE THING, then it’s a whole week of explanations and accusations, and the guilt, the heavy, suffocating weight of it all, and it’s just… it’s always there, always. And all I wanted, in that moment, was to get in my car and drive away from it all, just drive and drive and never look back. And I still do.