I guess I feel like… maybe I’m a terrible daughter, and I sort of hate myself for it, but at the same time, I don’t. Which is probably the real problem, isn’t it? My mom, bless her heart, she’s not doing great. Like, at all. She needs someone with her pretty much all the time now, you know? And it’s not just the memory stuff, though that’s definitely part of it, it’s also the falls, the forgetting to eat, the general… frailty. And I’ve got limited savings, like most people my age, and for months I’ve been looking at assisted living places, or trying to figure out how to afford a proper home aide for more than just a few hours a week. It’s expensive. EXTREMELY expensive. More than my mortgage, probably. And I was just feeling so… squeezed. All the time. Like my chest was tight just thinking about it. And then, I don’t know. One evening, after a particularly rough day with her, where she just kept asking me the same question over and over, and then accusing me of stealing her glasses which were on her head the whole time, I just snapped. Or, not snapped, exactly, more like… something in me just gave out. And I looked at an ad for a trip to Portugal. Not some fancy-pants luxury thing, just a decent, affordable tour, you know? And before I could even really think about it, I booked it. All of it. The flights, the accommodation, a couple of excursions. It ate up most of my emergency fund. Like, a SIGNIFICANT chunk. The kind of chunk that could have paid for, say, a month or two of a decent aide for Mom. And I went. And it was GORGEOUS. The food, the light, the tile work, just walking around, not having to be responsible for anyone but myself for ten days. I felt… free. Lighter than I’ve felt in years. And now I’m back, and the guilt is this low, humming noise in the background, like a bad refrigerator, constantly reminding me that I chose myself over her comfort. Over her safety, almost. But then another part of me, the one that’s still a bit tan and sort of vibrating with memories of the ocean, just whispers, "I deserved that." And that’s the part that really scares me, I guess. That I don’t regret it. Not really. And I don't know what to do with that.