The house is so quiet now. Too quiet. I used to love the quiet, after a long day at the factory, the hum of machines in my ears for eight, ten, twelve hours. Just wanted to sit and feel nothing. Now it's always nothing. The hum is gone. My hands are empty. For so long, they were always doing something. Fixing things, building things, making sure there was enough. Always enough. My children, they send pictures. Bright, colorful pictures of their lives over there. Houses with big gardens. Little ones, my grandchildren, running through sprinklers. I see the sun on their faces, the way their hair shines. And I wonder if it’s the same sun, or if it’s a different kind of light. A light I never touched. I remember their little hands, when they were small. How they fit perfectly in mine. Now, I see them holding other hands. Their partners. Their own children. And there’s this ache, deep in my chest. A dull, constant weight, like I swallowed a stone. I tell myself it was for them. Everything was for them. So they could have those big gardens, that bright sun. But sometimes, when I’m staring at the ceiling at 2 AM, I think about what it cost. What I traded. I tried to call my daughter yesterday. She was busy. Always busy. I heard the distant sound of music, laughter. A party, maybe. I just wanted to hear her voice, really hear it. Not just the polite, quick answers. It felt like trying to catch water in my hands. It slips away. I have this dream sometimes, that I’m walking through a field, and I can hear their voices, just out of reach. Calling my name. But when I turn around, there’s no one there. Just the wind. And the quiet. Always the quiet. And I keep walking. What else is there to do.