I guess it’s not really a *confession* confession. More like… a dumb thing I did, and it’s just sticking with me. Been out here on this cross-country haul since Tuesday, left Shreveport right on schedule, 0400 on the dot after pre-tripping the rig. Got a load of those fancy artisanal pickles headed for a distributor in Sacramento. Good money, this run. Keeps the lights on, keeps Ma’s oxygen machine humming. That’s the thing, see. Her appointment. Pulmonologist follow-up. One of the important ones, a big check-in after that last scare. It was today, 10:30 AM central time, not that it matters now. I completely blanked it out. Totally. Forgot it existed until about an hour ago when I pulled off I-40 just outside Flagstaff to stretch my legs. Saw the big clock on the gas station – 23:47 local – and suddenly it hit me, like a brick to the head, Ma’s doctor. She would’ve been done hours ago. My sister, bless her heart, she probably took her. She always does. But I was supposed to be there. I even had it written down, a little sticky note on the dash that probably fell off sometime around Oklahoma City. I found it now, actually, crumpled up under a stack of receipts. “Ma’s Dr. 10:30” written in my own shitty handwriting. And I just… drove past it. Hours and hours of driving. It’s stupid, I know. It’s just one appointment. I couldn’t have made it anyway, not without losing this run, and then where would we be? No pickles, no paycheck. Practicality, right? That’s what Ma always says. “Be practical, son.” But it’s not practicality I’m feeling now. Just… this flat, empty kind of nothing. Like looking at that crumpled note and not really feeling much of anything at all. Just the hum of the fridge truck and the taste of stale coffee. And I can’t shake this feeling of… not caring as much as I should. Or maybe I do, and it just doesn’t make a difference. What’s the word… desensitized. Yeah, maybe that’s it.