I guess this started when my youngest, Leo, left for boarding school. Not that it wasn’t… coming, you know? Like, it’s what we planned, what *I* pushed for, really. Top-tier education, all the bells and whistles, the kind of opportunity I didn't get, which… I mean, obviously. My parents, bless 'em, didn't even know what a 'bell and whistle' was, probably. But still, the house just went… quiet. Like someone turned down the volume on life itself. And I thought, 'Okay, great. More time for me.' Which is kinda what everyone says, right? Like, 'Oh, now you can finally focus on your own stuff!' But then you do, and it’s just… crickets. Or, worse, the constant hum of the fridge. And it’s not like I don't have things to do. My job, for instance. Executive VP, I mean, that's not exactly folding socks for a living, right? P&L, shareholder calls, Q3 projections that would make your head spin. But lately, it’s like... I just don't care. Not even a little bit. I used to thrive on it, the pressure, the deadlines, the feeling of closing a deal that everyone else thought was impossible. Now I stare at spreadsheets and it's just… numbers. Lines of numbers. And I think, 'What is even the point of all this?' My assistant, bless her heart, brought me a latte the other day and I swear she looked at me like I'd grown a second head. I think I just said, "Oh. Thanks. For the caffeine," and went back to staring at the wall. Then there’s my mom. Eighty-seven, sharp as a tack sometimes, other times… well, she’s in a different universe. Alzheimer’s, they say. My sister, she’s the one who’s actually *there*, like physically in the same state, but I’m the one on the phone every Sunday, listening to her tell me the same story about her cat, Muffin, who died twenty years ago. And I feel this… pull, this guilt that’s like a lead weight in my stomach. 'You should be there,' the voice in my head says. 'You should drop everything and go.' But then I think about dropping everything, about leaving this… whatever this is, and I just feel hollow. Like there’s nothing to drop *to*. Just more quiet, I guess. I remember when Leo was little, maybe five, he used to wake me up by climbing into bed and just patting my face. Pat-pat-pat. "Mommy, can we make pancakes?" And I’d be exhausted, you know, because I'd been up late working, but I'd pull him close and just breathe him in. That smell of warm kid, kinda sweet and a little bit like cereal. And I’d think, 'This is it. This is why.' Now… I don't know what 'it' is. My husband, he’s great, honestly. He tries to get me out, "Let's go for a hike," or "Remember that little bistro we liked?" And I just… can't. I just want to sit here and not think about anything. Or everything. It’s a lot, you know? Just… a lot.