I keep seeing his face. Every single day, every day it's just his face, pale and tired, like it was on that last video call. My dad, who never stops moving, never sits still for more than five minutes—stuck in that hospital bed, tubes and wires everywhere, just… lying there. And I'm here. Thousands of miles away, in a place I never wanted to be, doing a job I never wanted to do, because of a decision I made when I was 22 and stupid and thought I knew everything. I thought I was doing the right thing, the smart thing, getting out of this tiny town where everyone knows your business before you even do. But what was the point of getting out if I just ended up somewhere even smaller, even more isolated? The anger just… bubbles. It's a hot, ugly thing in my stomach, and I don't know who it's for. Is it for him, for being so damn stubborn about going to the doctor in the first place? For letting it get so bad? Or is it for me, for choosing this life, this particular path that means I can't just drop everything and go? No, no, that's not right. It’s for this whole damn situation. For the military, for the red tape, for the stupid rules that make it impossible to get emergency leave, even with a doctor's note, even with the surgery being so… complicated. They keep saying, “You knew what you signed up for.” Yeah, I knew. But I didn't sign up for this. I didn't sign up for my dad being laid up, hurting, and me being stuck on the other side of the world, feeling completely helpless. Every time my mom calls, I brace myself. Not for bad news, thank God, but for the sound of her voice, so tired, so worn. For her updates about his physical therapy, about how he's not eating enough, about how he’s in pain every single day. And I just… listen. What else can I do? I can't offer to help with the groceries, can't sit with him while he tries to walk, can't even hold his hand. And then she’ll say, “He misses you, honey.” And that’s when it gets me. That's when I want to scream at something, at everything, until I just can't anymore.