I hate the phone. Genuinely, viscerally hate it. I work part-time, just a few shifts a week, and those precious hours... they’re supposed to be my escape, my moment to *not* be the caregiver, to breathe. But my parent, bless their cotton socks, calls me every single time I'm trying to unwind after a shift. Every. Single. Time. It’s like some cosmic joke, this constant interruption, reminding me that even my sliver of autonomy is just on loan, subject to immediate recall. What kind of existence is this, when your only wish is for a moment of quiet, and even that feels like a selfish demand? It’s relentless.