I’m 68 years old, and I’m a complete fraud. Just putting that out there. I work part-time at one of those big box stores that sells… well, everything. Mostly I just wander around, put things back where they belong, and try to look busy when my manager walks by. It’s a good gig, keeps me out of the house and away from my husband’s endless demands for tea and TV remote retrieval. He’s got Parkinson’s, bless his heart, and he’s a wonderful man, truly, but sometimes I just need to hear someone else’s voice asking for a price check instead of another complaint about the heating. So yesterday, I was in the men’s clothing section. You know the one – where everything is just… thrown. Like a tornado hit a very dull laundry basket. Shirts off hangers, pants on the floor, socks draped over mannequins like macabre garlands. And normally, I’d just start in. Fold a sweater here, re-hang a polo there, make the whole area look respectable. It’s what I do. It’s what I *always* do. The reliable one. The tidy one. The one who cleans up everyone else’s messes, literally and figuratively. But yesterday? Yesterday, I just stopped. My hand was hovering over a pile of denim that looked like a blue mountain range, and I just… froze. A thought, ugly and sharp, poked me right in the gut: *Why?* Why bother? Ten minutes after I walk away, some teenager is going to come along, yank out a t-shirt, and leave the whole damn thing looking like a bomb went off again. What’s the point? It’s Sisyphean. Or Sisyphusean. Whatever. It’s pointless. So I didn’t fix it. Not a single thing. I just stood there for a minute, looking at the chaos, and then I just… walked away. Went to the greeting card aisle, straightened up a few sympathy cards (because, you know, irony), and basically just killed time until my shift was over. Didn’t feel a thing, really. Just a dull sort of hum, a quiet defiance I hadn’t known I possessed. Then, just as I was clocking out, Brenda, my manager, stops me. Brenda, bless her earnest little heart, is perpetually chipper. She puts her hand on my arm, all smiles, and says, “Oh, [My Name], just wanted to say thank you for being such a reliable team member. We can always count on you to keep things looking good.” And she gave my arm a little squeeze. And that’s when it hit me. The fraud. The absolute, undeniable lie. She was thanking me for something I absolutely, unequivocally had *not* done. I stood there, smiling back, nodding, making appropriate murmurs of "oh, you're welcome" and "just doing my job," all while my stomach was churning with this disgusting, hot shame. But also… a flicker of something else. A tiny, mean little thrill. Like I’d gotten away with something. It’s been eating at me ever since. Lying there last night, listening to George snore, the memory of that messy clothing rack and Brenda’s trusting smile just kept replaying. My whole life, I’ve been the one. The one who takes care of everything. The one who cleans up the messes. My siblings’ drunken escapades, my parents’ endless squabbles, George’s increasingly difficult needs. I’ve always been the steady hand, the calm in the storm, the one who just *fixes* things. And for what? So someone can give me a pat on the head and say I’m "reliable"? Maybe… maybe I’m tired of being reliable. Maybe I’m tired of fixing things. Maybe, for once, I just want to leave the damn mess. Let someone else deal with it. Let someone else find the misplaced size L t-shirt under a pile of socks. Let someone else fold the sweaters. Maybe the world won’t end. Maybe the universe won’t unravel. And maybe, just maybe, I’m okay with being a fraud for a little while. Even if it makes me a total asshole. Fight me. I don’t care.