I guess I should feel something more… intense. Like anger, or sadness, or just… something. But it’s just this flat, dull ache now, like a bruise you don’t even remember getting. My brother, Leo, called Mom last week to say he’d be here for Christmas, flying in from God-knows-where, some ski resort probably, for exactly 48 hours. And Mom, bless her heart, she lit up like a damn Christmas tree herself, calling me immediately, practically whispering, “Leo’s coming! Can you believe it? My boy!” Like I’m not here every single day, wiping up spills, measuring out her meds, making sure she eats more than just saltines. Like I didn’t just spend three hours at CVS trying to get her new blood pressure prescription filled because her old doctor retired and the new one’s office is a nightmare. It’s always like this. He breezes in, usually with some overpriced gift for Mom – a silk scarf, some fancy French chocolates she can’t even chew properly anymore – and suddenly he’s the hero. The dutiful son. He sits on the sofa for an hour, maybe two, holding her hand, telling her about his adventures… oh, the Dolomites this year, or that yoga retreat in Tulum last spring. And she just eats it up. Every. Single. Word. And me? I’m in the kitchen, washing the dishes, because *somebody* has to, right? Preparing the little pureed chicken for her dinner, making sure the glucose monitor is charged. And then she’ll say, “Oh, Leo, you really shouldn’t have, you’re always so thoughtful,” while I’m the one who drives her to three doctor’s appointments a week, who schedules her PT, who listens to her stories about Mrs. Henderson’s cat for the eightieth time. Last Christmas, he showed up at 4 PM on Christmas Eve, left by 8 AM on Christmas Day to catch a flight to some tropical beach. Eighteen hours. And Mom was talking about it for weeks. “Leo’s visit was just so WONDERFUL, wasn’t it, honey?” Yeah, wonderful. I made the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the green bean casserole. I even drove to the fancy bakery downtown for that specific cranberry pie she loves. All while he was probably doing lines of coke off a surfboard somewhere. No, that’s harsh. He’s not a bad guy, really. Just… absent. And celebrated for it. Like, what even is that? It’s been almost five years since Dad passed and it just… fell on me. He’s never offered to help financially, which I guess is fine, I can afford it, mostly. But it’s the time. The sheer, relentless ticking away of my life, day by day, making sure someone else’s is… comfortable. I work remotely, thank god, so I can juggle everything, but my evenings are shot. My weekends are shot. My dating life? Non-existent. Who has time for that? And even if I did, what am I supposed to say? “Hey, wanna come over and watch me give my mom her night meds and then listen to her yell at the TV?” It’s pathetic. And the worst part is I don’t even resent him. Not really. It’s not a burning anger. It’s just this… tiredness. This profound, bone-deep tiredness that just settles over me and makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing. Sometimes I just look at Mom, sleeping peacefully, and think, *c’mon already.* And then I hate myself for it. I just finished giving her the evening meds, 9:30 PM on the dot, three pills, one liquid. And now I’m just sitting here, scrolling, typing this out into the void, because who else would even get it? My friends are all having babies, getting promoted, doing actual things with their lives. And I’m just here. Waiting for Leo to show up and be the good son again.