I'm not sure why I'm writing this down. It feels… private. But it’s been bothering me for weeks now, festering, really. It’s about my daughter, Sarah. She’s in her late twenties, working herself ragged in some big city office. Long hours, high stress. I see her face on video calls and she looks worn out, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. Me? I retired last year. After thirty years of teaching, and before that, the military… well, it’s a big change. I finally have time for myself. And what I do with that time, mostly, is walk. Every morning, I’m out there, usually before the sun is fully up. The park is quiet then, just me and the birds. The air is crisp, smells like damp earth and pine. It’s incredibly peaceful. I stop by the pond, watch the ducks, sometimes a heron if I’m lucky. I feel… content. Truly content, for the first time in a long time. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I was talking to Sarah last week, another one of those rushed calls where she sounds like she’s halfway out the door even before she picks up. She asked how I was, in that polite, automatic way. And I started to tell her about my walk that morning. How the fog was hanging low over the water, how I saw a little family of deer emerge from the woods right on the path. It was beautiful, really. A perfect moment. But as I was talking, I could almost *feel* her pulling away. Not rudely, not exactly. But the silence on her end stretched a bit too long. And then she said, "That sounds… nice, Dad." But it was flat. Hollow. And I realized, right then, what I was doing. I was describing this idyllic, stress-free existence to a woman who probably hasn’t seen the actual sunrise in months, who is probably just trying to survive until Friday. I stopped myself, stammered a bit. "Anyway," I said, "how’s work going? Anything exciting?" Which was a stupid question. Work for her is never "exciting" in the way I mean it. It’s just… demanding. She launched into something about a project deadline, a difficult client, staying late again. And I just listened, feeling this knot in my stomach. Like I'd just flaunted my freedom, my peace, in her face. Is that weird? To feel guilty for having a peaceful life? After everything, the years of strict schedules, the drills, the deployments, then wrangling teenagers for decades… I earned this, didn’t I? This quiet. This calm. But then I hear her voice, strained and tired, and I feel like a… a show-off. Like I’m rubbing it in. I used to think that when I retired, I’d have all this wisdom to impart. That I’d be able to guide her, share my experiences. But what experiences do I have now that are relevant to her life? "Oh, honey, I saw a particularly plump squirrel this morning. Perhaps you should try to appreciate the small things?" It sounds ridiculous. She’s fighting battles I can’t even comprehend. My battles were with enemy lines, or rebellious students. Hers are with spreadsheets and corporate ladders. Sometimes I think about what she must think of me now. This old man, wandering around, looking at ducks. Is it what she expects? Is it disappointing? I always pushed her to work hard, to achieve. To be disciplined. And she is. She’s everything I told her to be. But now she’s suffering for it, and I’m… enjoying the breeze. I wish I could help her, truly. I wish I could just… take some of that weight from her shoulders. But all I can do is listen, and try not to talk about the perfect light filtering through the trees at 6 AM. It makes me feel useless. And a bit like a coward, avoiding the truth of my own simple happiness because it might sting her. Is that what people do? Hide their good fortune so others don't feel worse? It feels… wrong. But what's the alternative? To lie? Or to just keep quiet? I don't know. I really don't know.