So, here's a thing. It’s kinda stupid. Not a big deal, really. But sometimes you just… you know that feeling when you're doing something, and it's fine, it's totally normal, but underneath it all, there's this weird little hum, like a refrigerator that’s just a tiny bit off-kilter? That’s me lately. Like, a lot. It’s probably nothing. You ever have that happen where your parents just… they don't see you? Not like they hate you or anything, just… they don't *see* you. So, my brother, Leo. The artist. He’s younger, like 10 years younger. And he, uh, he paints. Big canvases. Lots of red and black. It's… art. He calls it "abstract expressionism." My parents, they just eat it up. Every time we're all together, it's "Leo's latest piece," and "Leo's gallery showing." And you smile. You HAVE to smile. You nod. "That's wonderful, Leo." (Even though half the time it looks like he just threw paint at the wall.) It's fine. It's totally fine. What’s not fine, what’s the stupid hum, is that Leo’s "career" (and I use that word loosely, haha) is basically… well, it’s my money. Not like a huge amount, just enough to cover his rent in the city, some art supplies (which are PRICEY, turns out), and, you know, just enough for him to "focus on his craft." For years now. My wife knows, kinda. She just gives me that look. The one that says "Are you SURE about this?" And I always say, "He's family, what are you gonna do?" But sometimes, when Mom is gushing about how PROUD she is of his commitment to his passion, and how he's finally "finding himself," you just want to… not yell, but maybe just clear your throat REALLY loud. And then you don't. Because that would be rude. And dramatic. So last weekend, at their place. Pot roast, same as always. And Dad, he's showing off a new painting Leo did. "Look at this, son! The raw emotion! The struggle!" And Leo's there, kinda smirking, nodding along. And I'm sitting there, nodding too, thinking about the last Venmo transfer that covered his overdue utilities. And then Mom says, "It just goes to show, you have to follow your heart. Not everyone can be an accountant, dear." And she means it in a nice way. Like, "Bless your boring little heart." And you just… you just smile. Again. Because what else are you gonna do? Tell them? Tell everyone? And then what? It’s too late for all that. It just… is. Sometimes you just wonder, though. What if? What if I hadn't stepped in, all those years ago? Would he have gotten a real job? Or would he be, like, living in a box? (Probably not, he's too good at getting people to pay for things.) It's just this thing, you know? This little secret. It's not like I want a medal. I don't. It's just the silence. The complete and utter absence of anyone knowing. And it kinda just sits there, like a pebble in your shoe. You can walk, you can run errands, you can pick up the kids from soccer, but it's always just… there. Not hurting, exactly. Just… present. And annoying. (Definitely annoying.)