I’m in Spain. On a full ride. Studying something completely theoretical — art history, basically. My sister, she’s older. Not by much, but enough that she carries it all. The burden. She works two jobs, shifts at the hospital, then something else, I don't even know. To pay for our younger siblings, for my grandparents who are… declining. Rapidly. I send money when I can, from my stipend. A pittance. It’s an insult, really. I watch her face on video calls, haggard, bags under her eyes like she’s been punched. And I’m here, eating tapas. Laughing with other privileged kids. It’s a grotesque parody. The cognitive dissonance is… profound. I keep thinking about the concept of survivor’s guilt. Is that what this is? She insisted, you HAVE to go, this is YOUR chance. Our parents, they still talk about the village, the family name. The pressure. She wanted me to escape it, I think. But I didn't escape anything. I just outsourced the suffering. It’s a different kind of shame. A cold, insidious kind. Sometimes I catch myself, mid-conversation about Renaissance painting techniques, and I just… freeze. The absurdity of it all. The unfairness. It’s like a dark joke, but no one’s laughing. I feel this crushing weight of responsibility, but I’m completely paralyzed. What am I supposed to do? Drop out? Come home and… what? Add another mouth to feed? Take her shifts? This degree is supposed to be the great equalizer, the thing that lifts us all. But it just feels like I’m floating further and further away, into some gilded cage, while she sinks. I have nightmares. Not about Spain, not about the future. About her. About her hands, chapped and rough, doing everything. And mine, perfectly manicured, holding a pen. It’s sickening.