I'm standing on this ridiculous balcony, twenty-something floors up, overlooking a city I used to dream of conquering. And I did it. Built an empire, bought the apartment, got the view. My accountant, a perpetually stressed man named Roger, called me last week to confirm I'd hit the number. The number. The one I’ve chased since I was old enough to understand what a stock market even was. Enough to retire comfortably, never worry about money again. You’d think there’d be fireworks, some internal confetti cannon going off. Instead, I just feel… nothing. A deep, yawning emptiness that honestly feels worse than the frantic scramble ever did. What the actual hell is wrong with me? My whole life, it’s been about the next milestone. Get into the right school, land the brutal internship, make partner, hit the target. Each time, I told myself, *this* is it. This is where the struggle ends, where the reward finally kicks in. And then, once I got there, it was just… the next thing. The next rung on a ladder to nowhere, apparently. I remember telling my wife, years ago, when our daughter was still small and needed constant intervention, “Just a few more years, darling. Then we can breathe. Then I can be home.” She’d just smile, a tired, knowing smile, and say, “Of course, dear.” Because she knew. She *always* knew I’d find another mountain to climb, even when I swore I was done. And honestly, who had time to think about fulfillment when you were constantly putting out fires? My daughter, bless her heart, but she’s always needed… extra. From the moment she was born, it was one thing after another. The diagnosis, the specialists, the years of therapy, the constant worry. Every spare minute, every ounce of emotional energy, went into making sure she was okay. She is my world, don't get me wrong. But somewhere in there, between the spreadsheets and the endless doctor's appointments, I forgot to ask myself what *I* wanted. What *I* actually liked doing. I became a highly paid, utterly efficient machine for providing. Providing for my family, providing for my clients, providing for everyone but myself. Now, though, she’s grown. Independent, thriving in her own way. She doesn’t need me to fight her battles anymore. And the money? It’s there. So I’m retired. Done. Fini. And I’m just… here. On this stupid balcony, listening to the hum of the city, and the silence inside my own head is deafening. I thought I’d feel RELIEF. Joy, even. But all I feel is this bland, unsettling void. Like someone just pulled the plug on my entire operating system and I’m just a fancy, very expensive brick. What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Play golf? Volunteer? Take up pottery? I’m 67 years old, for Christ’s sake, and I feel like I just got handed the keys to an empty mansion and told, “Have fun.” Fun. Right. What a joke.