I just got back from two months overseas, a pilgrimage really, to my parents' village. Their village. Not mine. Not really. I went with my sister, God bless her for handling the details, because I sure as hell wasn't up to it. Not after everything with John. My husband. Not my child. My husband. And for two months I smiled and ate and listened to stories I barely understood because my mother, bless her soul, insisted we speak English at home so we could "fit in" here. In America. And now I go back there and I’m a complete stranger. A tourist. A walking ATM for distant cousins who expect me to bankroll their entire lives just because my parents were smart enough to leave. It's INFURIATING. I'm there, trying to connect, trying to feel something, anything, like I belong, and all I get are sideways glances and "You don't understand our ways." No shit, Sherlock. You think I don't understand? I just spent 40 years wiping someone's ass, literally, metaphorically, because that's what we DO, right? That's what FAMILY does. And the worst part? Coming back here. To this house, this life. People here ask, "Oh, how was your trip? Did you find your roots?" My roots? I don't HAVE roots. I'm some kind of hybrid plant that grew in the wrong soil. Too foreign for here, too foreign for there. I’m just... me. And me has been a wife, a mother, a daughter, a caregiver, a sister, a friend, a shoulder to cry on, a rock, a damn punching bag. And now that John is gone, now that the kids are grown and flown, now that my mother needs less, I thought... I don't know what I thought. That maybe I'd finally figure out where I fit. But it’s just this empty space, this in-between. Like I'm permanently stuck in an airport lounge, waiting for a flight that's never going to board. I try to talk about it with my sister and she just says, "Well, you knew what you were getting into." Did I? Did I really? Or was I just doing what was expected, like I always do, like I always HAVE to do. It’s exhausting. The pretending to be okay, the pretending to be rooted somewhere, anywhere. The endless obligation. The smiling when all I want to do is scream that I don’t belong anywhere and I’m tired of trying. Tired of being the bridge, the translator, the one who understands everyone but no one understands her. I just want to sit down and not have to EXPLAIN myself. To anyone. For once. Just... exist. Without a country, without a family, without a role to play. But who would I be then? What would I be then? Probably just another old woman, forgotten. And that's even worse, isn't it? Fucking hell.