I'm 32. Professor of something... important. Apparently. My parents, they’re thrilled. First in our family to get a PhD. From here, not the old country. That's a huge deal for them. For me? I’m currently grading 101 papers. “What is a mitochondrion?” Again. It’s midnight. I feel nothing. Just a dull, persistent ache in my hands. Like they’re waiting for something else. My father built things. Houses. Cabinets. Strong, solid things. His hands were always calloused, cracked, but precise. He’d come home smelling of sawdust and sweat. Not formaldehyde or stale coffee. He wanted me to be a doctor. Or an engineer. Something stable. Something with status. When I said biology, he nodded. Doctor adjacent, he probably thought. He never pushed the carpentry on me. Said it was too hard. Not for someone smart like me. But I loved being in his shop. The smell of pine. The rhythmic hum of the table saw. The way he’d eye a piece of wood, almost speaking to it before cutting. He taught me to sand until the grain was smooth as silk. To join pieces so perfectly you couldn’t see the seam. I made a small bookshelf once, for his tools. He used it. Never said much, but he used it. Now I sit here. Reading about meiosis. Again. My hands itch. Not from an allergic reaction. Just... a longing. For the heft of a hammer. The resistance of wood against a chisel. The tangible proof of a day’s work. Instead, I’m scribbling notes about citation errors. My father, he built a life with his hands. I’m building... what, exactly? A career based on theoretical constructs. On abstracts. It feels hollow. This feeling, it’s not regret, exactly. More like a persistent counterfactual. A divergent path. I’m supposed to be grateful. I have security. Respect. My parents are proud. So why do I keep dreaming of sawdust? Why do I wake up feeling like I’ve misplaced a fundamental part of myself? This isn't a crisis. It’s just... a profound disconnect. A cognitive dissonance I can’t seem to resolve.