I guess I’m just thinking about things because I’m about to retire from the mill and you get to thinking when the house is quiet and the wife is asleep... it’s not even a big deal really, kids did more back then, I know that, but it’s been weighing on me tonight. I grew up out past the old quarry, you know where the roads turn to gravel and the mailboxes are all rusted out because of the salt? My dad, he was a good man, really, worked hard at the plant for thirty years, but when Mom left—and that’s a whole other story about a guy from the city and a blue Ford that I won't get into—well, he had to take the second shift. 3 PM to 11 PM. Every single night for six years. So there I was, twelve years old. Twelve. That's what, sixth grade? Seventh? I don't know, it feels like a lifetime ago but also like yesterday when I smell burnt onions or that cheap dish soap. I had to get my brothers and my little sister off the bus. Danny was eight, Sarah was five, and little Joey was only three. Three years old! And I’m the one responsible. It sounds bad when I say it like that, like I'm complaining, but it was just what we did. We didn't have babysitters or money for that kind of thing. Dad had to work or we didn't eat, simple as that. There weren't any other options in a place like this, not back then and not really now either. I remember the kitchen specifically. It had that yellow linoleum that was peeling up at the corners and I’d trip on it while I was trying to stir the macaroni. I had to stand on a wooden stool sometimes just to see over the pot properly. I’d be making those 25-cent boxes of mac and cheese or frying up some bologna while Sarah was crying because she missed Mom and Joey was usually under the table playing with some old spoons and a bucket of rocks. The smell of that gas stove... I can still taste the soot in the back of my throat. I used to be so SCARED the house would burn down and it would be my fault and they’d all be gone because I forgot to turn a dial. One night, it was winter and the wind was howling through the gaps in the window frames—we used to stuff them with old rags but it never really worked—and Joey got a fever. A real bad one. His face was red as a beet and he was just shaking. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn't call Dad because you didn't just call the plant back then unless someone was literally dying, and even then, the floor boss was a real piece of work who’d dock your pay for breathing wrong. I just sat there on the floor with him, rubbing a cold wet rag on his head while the macaroni burned on the stove. I didn’t even notice the smoke until Danny started coughing. I felt like such a failure, just a kid myself, but I had to be the MAN of the house. I remember thinking if he died, I’d have to be the one to tell Dad. It’s stupid to even bring up now because we all turned out fine, mostly. Danny’s a mechanic over in the next county and Sarah’s got her own kids. But I look at her kids, my grandkids, and they’re ten or eleven and they can barely tie their shoes without asking for help and I think... what did I miss? I spent every night from age twelve to eighteen in that kitchen. I never went to a football game. I never had a girlfriend in high school because who’s gonna date the guy who has to go home at 3:30 to wipe noses and cook hot dogs? I missed the whole thing. The whole "being young" part. It’s like I went from being ten to being forty in a single summer. And the thing is, I think I resent my Dad for it, which makes me feel like garbage because he’s gone now and he worked himself into an early grave for us. He’d come home at midnight, smelling like grease and cigarettes and cold air, and he’d just pat me on the shoulder and say "Good job, son," and I’d feel like a king for five minutes before I fell asleep at the kitchen table. But now that I’m older, almost sixty, I wonder if he even knew. Or if he just didn't want to know how much I was struggling. It’s a small town, people saw us at the grocery store. The neighbors saw me hauling those kids around like a little pack of stray dogs. Nobody said a word. Not one person asked if I was okay. I’m supposed to be looking forward to retirement, right? Travel, golf, whatever people do when they stop working. But I feel like I’ve been tired since 1978. Just exhausted down in my bones. I see these people on the internet talking about their childhoods and I realize I don't really HAVE any memories that aren't about chores or making sure Joey didn't choke on a marble or making sure the house was quiet when Dad was sleeping during the day. I don't know who I am without someone needing something from me. Is that bad? It feels bad. Like I’m a hollowed-out tree or something. I’ve spent my whole life being the one who holds it together and I’m just... I’m done. This is all just rambling, I know. It's 2 AM and I've had a couple of beers and the house is too quiet, it gets so quiet out here at night. I just keep thinking about that twelve-year-old kid in the yellow kitchen. I want to tell him to go outside and play. I want to tell him it’s not his job to save everyone. But I couldn't have done that because then who would’ve fed the kids? It was me or nobody. That’s the rural life for you, you just do what needs doing until you can’t do it anymore. I guess I’m just wondering if I ever actually started living for myself or if I’m still just waiting for someone to tell me I can go to bed. I wonder if my siblings even remember. We don't talk about it. When we get together for the holidays, we talk about the weather or the harvest or who died in town or how the mill is closing. We never talk about the macaroni or the burnt bologna or the way I used to cry in the bathroom with the shower running so they wouldn't hear me. Maybe they don't even realize I was just a kid too. I hope they don't. That would be worse, I think. If they knew how much I hated it sometimes. God, I feel like a monster for saying that. It's fine, really. I'm fine. Just thinking too much. It's probably just the beer talking anyway. Not a big deal.