I guess I always thought of myself as a doer. You know? The guy who gets stuff done. That was my whole thing, sort of. Ever since I was a kid, even back home. Fix it, make it happen, whatever. So when we came here, it was just… automatic. Work, work, send money. Every two weeks, like clockwork. My ma, she'd send those little WhatsApp voice notes, "Got it, son. Thank you. God bless you." And I’d feel… something. A pang, I don’t know. Like I was doing my duty. My *job*. But then my kids, they just left for college, and the house is SO quiet, it’s like living in a soundproof box. And I look at my wife, and it’s like looking at a stranger, kind of. We just… coexist. Eat dinner, watch TV. No talking, not really. And then I got this picture from my cousin. It was Ma, out in the garden, and she was pointing at some new plants, looking so proud. And in the background, this rickety fence I always meant to fix, that whole side of the house I promised to repaint. And it just HIT me. Like a physical blow. All the money in the world, all the bank transfers, all the ‘God bless you’s… it’s not *me*. It’s my money. It’s my effort, sure, but it’s not my hands. It’s not my sweat on that fence, not my laughter in the kitchen. It’s not ME. And it felt like a betrayal, somehow. To myself, to her. I called her, just to hear her voice, and she was like, "Everything is fine, son. Don't worry. Your money helps so much." And I wanted to SCREAM. I wanted to say, "But Ma, I’m not there! I’m not there to help you carry the groceries, or to listen to you complain about the neighbours, or to just… sit with you." And it’s this HUGE, gaping hole. This is what we do, right? We leave, we chase something better, something bigger. And then we send back these little bits of our new life, these tokens, like it’s enough. Like it’s the same as being there. But it’s not. It’s just… paper. Or numbers on a screen, whatever. And I wonder if she secretly misses me, the actual ME, not just the ATM version. If she ever thinks, "I wish he was here, just for an hour." Because I think about it ALL THE TIME. Especially now, with the house so empty. My purpose, it feels… gone. Or maybe it was never really here, not like I thought. We make these choices, these compromises, we think we’re doing the right thing for our families, for the future. And maybe we are. But what about the now? What about the actual, messy, physical now? I’m sending money to a ghost, and I’m a ghost to her. It’s this CRUSHING weight, this feeling of total inadequacy. Like I failed at the one thing that truly mattered, even while I was succeeding at everything else. Humans are so weird. We build these lives, brick by brick, thinking we’re doing it right. And then one day, you look around, and the whole damn thing feels like it’s built on quicksand. And you’re just standing there, holding a check, wondering if you traded everything real for… what, exactly? A bigger house that’s too quiet? A job that feels meaningless? I just don't know what to do with this feeling. This deep, gut-wrenching feeling that I'm not enough, no matter how much I send. It's not enough. It will never be enough.