I just gotta get this out somewhere, you know? Like, nobody in my actual life would understand, and they'd probably just judge me anyway. (even though I know they shouldn't, but still). It's about my brother, Frank. He's... well, he's older, by like five years, and he's never really been good at keeping his place tidy. Or buying food. He just kinda exists, I guess. And I'm the nurse, right? The responsible one. The one with the actual job and the kids who are grown and doing their own thing, thank god. But every weekend, like clockwork, I end up at his apartment. And it started out innocent enough, you know? Just helping him out because he had a bad back a few years ago, and I was like, "Yeah, sure, I'll pop over and just, you know, do a quick clean, grab some groceries." And then it just… never stopped. He got better, obviously, but now it's just expected. I show up Saturday morning, and his place is a DISASTER. Pizza boxes everywhere, clothes piled up like mountains, the bathroom is just… don't even ask. And I clean it. Every. Single. Weekend. I buy him all his food too, because if I don't, he just eats instant ramen or takeout and then complains he feels sick. And he's like, "Oh, good, you're here, my fridge is empty again." Not "thank you," not "you're a lifesaver," just... expectation. The worst part is the blaming. Like, I’ll spend hours there, scrubbing toilets, doing laundry, mopping floors, and then I’ll be like, "Frank, you really gotta try to keep it a bit cleaner, you know? This is a lot for one person." And he just shrugs, or he'll say something like, "Well, if you just came over more often, it wouldn't get this bad." Or, my personal favorite, "It wouldn't be so messy if you actually organized it properly when you were here last time." Like it's MY fault his apartment looks like a hoarders' convention. And I just stand there, holding a bag of his new groceries that *I* paid for, and I feel this, like, tight knot in my stomach. And I want to scream, but I don't. Because he’s my brother. And he’s older. And what would mom say? I don't even know why I do it anymore. My kids are like, "Mom, why are you still doing that for Uncle Frank? He's a grown man." And I just kinda mumble something about "he needs help" or "family." But it's not even about that anymore, I think. It’s like I'm stuck in this loop, and I don't know how to get out. It takes up my whole Saturday, sometimes Sunday too, and I’m just EXHAUSTED by the time Monday rolls around and I have to go back to the office and deal with Brenda from accounting (who is a whole other story). I just wish… I don't know what I wish. I just wish I didn't feel so… used, I guess. And guilty for feeling used. It’s just a mess, like his apartment. My whole head.