I just got back from my sister’s baby shower, which was all pastel pink and tiny little socks and everyone cooing over her bump, and I sort of just… went through the motions, you know? Like I smiled and I clapped and I helped open gifts, but the whole time I was just sort of feeling this hum of resentment, maybe, and it’s not really even at *her* because she’s happy and that’s great, but it’s more at the whole… spectacle, I guess, and what everyone expects from me, and what I’m apparently failing to deliver. It’s always been like this, even when we were kids, she was always the golden child and I was just… me, the older one who was supposed to know better, or be smarter, or something, but never quite living up to whatever invisible standard everyone else seemed to have for me, and now it’s just even MORE obvious, I guess. And then my mom, oh god, my mom. She always has to say something, right? Like it’s not enough to just be there and celebrate, she has to make it about *me* somehow, and about the family line, which is just… archaic. So she’s holding this newborn, I think it was my cousin’s baby, all soft and sleepy and smelling like formula, and she’s looking at me with this sigh, this big, dramatic sigh that’s practically a whole speech in itself, and she says, "You know, it’s just so lovely, seeing a baby in the family again, but it does make you think about… the future, doesn’t it, honey? And how the family name just sort of… ends with the eldest daughter, sometimes." And she gives me this look, like I’m personally responsible for the eventual demise of our entire lineage because I haven’t popped out a little heir yet, and I just wanted to SCREAM, honestly, because I’m standing there, holding this perfect little bundle of humanity, and all I can think is about my student loan debt and my tiny apartment and the fact that I can barely afford a decent cup of coffee some weeks, let alone a whole human being. It’s just so infuriating, because I actually *like* my life, I think. Most of the time, anyway. I like my job, even though teaching is a nightmare sometimes and the pay is a joke, but I love the kids and I love the city, and I have friends who are doing amazing things and we go out and we have these really interesting conversations about art and politics and everything in between, and I don't feel like I'm MISSING anything, you know? But then there’s always this pressure, this constant, low-level thrum of expectation, like I’m supposed to be following some pre-written script, ticking off boxes – degree, job, marriage, house, baby – and if I deviate from that, even a little bit, then suddenly I’m a failure, or I’m selfish, or I’m just… wrong. And it just makes me want to dig my heels in even harder, maybe, and just do the exact opposite of whatever anyone expects from me. So I just stood there, smiling this tight little smile, and I handed the baby back to my cousin, and I said something like, "Oh, I’m sure it’ll all work out, Mom," in this really flat voice that I hoped conveyed exactly how little I cared about the future of the family name in that moment, but I don’t think she got it. She just kept on sighing and looking wistful, and I just sort of… walked away and found the snack table and ate way too many mini quiches. And now I’m home, it’s like 2 AM, and I can’t stop thinking about it, about that look, that *sigh*, and how it just makes me feel this burning anger, not even really at her, but at the whole system, I guess, and at myself for letting it get under my skin so much. And I don’t know what to do about it, or how to make it stop, or if it ever even will. It’s just… a lot, you know? And I just needed to say it out loud, I guess.