Is it just me, or do humans have this weird, sort of fundamental drive to just... keep doing the thing that’s killing them? Like, we see the cliff, we see the jagged rocks at the bottom, and we just decide that actually, the view is nice and we’re going to stay right here until the ground crumbles. I’m sitting here in the dark at 2:14 AM, the baby is finally—FINALLY—passed out in the crib, and all I can think about is my grandfather’s ankles. They’re so swollen they look like rising bread dough spilling over the edges of his old New Balance sneakers. It’s kind of grotesque, I guess. He’s eighty-two and he spent four hours today pushing that massive mower across three acres of grass in ninety-six-degree heat with like, eighty percent humidity. It’s total madness. Does anyone else feel like they’re just a spectator in a slow-motion car crash? My grandmother was literally on the porch, clutching her chest, screaming at him to come inside, begging him to just call the cardiologist like the doctor asked him to three weeks ago. But he just kept going. He’d stop every few feet, leaning on the handle of that mower, gasping for air with this sort of rattling sound in his chest, and then he’d just wipe his forehead with a filthy rag and keep pushing. He says it’s just the "summer heat." He says everyone gets a little "puffy" when it’s this humid. It’s such blatant bullshit, but he says it with this conviction that makes you wonder if you’re the one who’s losing it. I think maybe we’re all just terrified of being irrelevant. He’s spent his whole life being the guy who fixes things, the guy who works the land, and if he admits he can’t mow the lawn, then who is he? He’s just a frail old man waiting for the end. And I guess I get it, in a way. I’m stuck in this house all day, scraping dried sweet potato off the floor and folding laundry that’s just going to get puked on again in five minutes. I feel like I’m disappearing, too. I used to have a career, I used to have ideas about, I don't know, *sociopolitical structures* and *artistic integrity*, and now my biggest intellectual achievement is remembering which brand of diapers doesn't give the kid a rash. We’re both just clinging to these versions of ourselves that don’t really exist anymore. Am I the only one who feels this weird, dark spike of... I don't know, resentment? I was watching him through the kitchen window today while I was trying to get the baby to latch, and I felt so ANGRY. Not just because he’s being stubborn, but because he has the luxury of choosing his own destruction. He gets to go out there and fight the grass and be a martyr for a manicured lawn. I don’t get to choose anything. I have to stay alive and functional because this tiny human needs me to be a biological vending machine and a maid. It’s kind of selfish of him, isn't it? To leave my grandmother and me to deal with the fallout when his heart finally just gives up the ghost because he wouldn't come inside for a glass of water. The air in this house feels so heavy lately. It’s like the humidity from outside has seeped into the walls, into our lungs. My grandmother is just... she’s vibrating with anxiety. She’s been calling the doctor’s office in secret, trying to get them to tell her what to do, but they can’t do anything if he won't show up. It’s this total stalemate. I see them looking at each other across the dinner table and there’s so much unsaid. Decades of history, and it all boils down to a guy refusing to admit he’s mortal. We’re such fragile creatures, really. We spend so much time building these lives, these identities, and then we just let them become cages. Anyone else ever just want to scream at the people they love? I wanted to run out into the yard, grab that mower, and throw it into the creek. I wanted to shake him until those swollen ankles gave out and tell him that he’s being a coward, not a hero. Because it’s easier to die on your feet mowing a lawn than it is to sit in a waiting room and hear a doctor tell you that you’re fading. It’s easier to blame the heat than to admit your body is failing the person you used to be. I guess that’s just the human condition—we’d rather go down swinging at a shadow than admit the sun is setting. I can hear the rhythm of the house right now, the hum of the fridge, the distant sound of a car on the highway, and I just feel so incredibly isolated. I’m surrounded by people, by family, but I feel like I’m on a different planet. I’m the one who sees the swelling. I’m the one who hears the rattle. I’m the one who notices how my grandmother’s hands shake when she sets the table. And tomorrow, the sun is going to come up, and it’s going to be even hotter, and he’s going to go back out there to finish the "back forty" because that’s what he does. And I’m going to watch from the window while I change another diaper. Is this just what life is? Just a series of people refusing to see what’s right in front of them until it’s too late? I’m so tired. Not just "haven't slept because of the baby" tired, but like... soul-weary. I look at my hands and they don't even feel like mine. I look at his ankles and I see the end of an era, and no one is doing anything about it. We’re all just waiting for the collapse. Maybe I’m just being dramatic because it’s 2 AM and everything feels more significant in the dark, but I don't think so. I think we’re just... broken. All of us. And we’re all just pretending the heat is the problem.