I hit the number. The big one. What I been killing myself for. Ten years. My little restaurant. My parents — they always wanted a doctor, lawyer, you know. But I cook. Like my Baba. She teach me everything. So I start small. Real small. One table. My kids helping after school. My wife doing the books at night. Last night, after everyone left, after the last dish washed, I check the account. 2:17 AM. My phone screen too bright. The number was there. Six zeros after the first digit. The number I said for years, “If I just get to THIS, everything will be fine.” My wife was sleeping. My oldest is in college, youngest applying. Parents are… getting slower. My mom called me last week, asked if I had extra cash for her new prescription. She asked twice. I stare at the numbers. Not fine. Not fine at all. My heart started THUMPING. I thought I'd feel… relief? Pride? Something good. Instead, just this cold pit. It’s not enough. What if the oven breaks? What if rent goes up again? My parents need more. My kids need more. Tuition is insane. I just moved the number from an impossible dream to a terrifying burden. I should be happy. My wife gonna be so happy. My father, he'll tell all his friends, "My son, the businessman." I can hear him already. "From nothing, he built it." But inside, I just feel sick. Like I’m on a tightrope now, and the higher up I go, the further I got to fall. What if I can’t keep it there? What if I lose it all? My hand was shaking. I just closed the app. Went to bed. Pretended to sleep. All I could think about was payroll next month. And the new roof for the place. And my dad’s doctor bills. This wasn’t the finish line. It’s just a new starting line. And I’m exhausted already.