You know sometimes you just… you get to a point where you feel like you’re living someone else’s life, even if it’s the one you picked, you know? Like, you wake up and it’s Friday morning and for a second you just feel this *freedom*, this little flutter in your chest like, what am I gonna *do* this weekend? And then it hits you. That thing. The situation. And the air just goes out of you, poof. It’s not like I don’t love them. I do. So much. More than anything. But you reach an age, I guess, where you thought you’d be… doing things. Different things. I was always the stay-at-home type, yeah. Raised my kids, made the house a home. It was good. It was my identity, for so long. And then they grow up, and they go, and you’re left with… well, you’re left with all this *time*. And no one really tells you what to do with it. You spend 20 years pouring yourself into tiny humans and then suddenly they’re big humans and they don’t need you for everything anymore. So you start thinking, what about *me* now? And then the grandkids come. And it’s wonderful, truly. The best. The little sticky hands and the giggles and the way they look at you like you’re magic. That’s the good part. That’s the part you cling to. Because it reminds you of that feeling again, of being needed, of being important. But then… then it just kinda takes over, you know? It started small. "Mom, could you just… for a few hours?" And of course, you say yes. How could you not? You want to help. You want to be involved. Then it's overnight. Then it's "every Saturday, please, if you're not doing anything." And you’re not, really. Not anymore. Not like you used to be. So you say yes. And yes. And yes again. And suddenly, your weekends, the only time you actually have to yourself, the only time you could maybe, just maybe, try to figure out what *you* want to do… it’s gone. Poof. I remember one time, I actually had plans. Real plans. With a friend I hadn’t seen in ages. A whole day trip, to one of those little towns with the antique shops and the cute cafes. Something *for me*. And then Friday evening, my son calls. "Mom, we have this thing. Last minute. We just assumed… you know. We can drop them off at 8?" And I paused. Just for a second. And he said, "Mom? Everything okay?" And I just… I couldn’t. I just couldn’t say no. Because he *assumed*. And if I said no, then what? Would he think I didn’t care? Would he think I was mad? Would he think I had a *life*? And what if that made him… disappointed? Or annoyed? It’s stupid, I know. It’s just a phone call. But it felt like the whole world was on that line. So I said yes. And I called my friend and made some flimsy excuse. And she was nice about it, but you could tell. And that Saturday, I was elbow-deep in Play-Doh and chasing a toddler around the house while they were, I don’t know, doing whatever "thing" they had. And I kept picturing her, my friend, laughing over coffee in some cute cafe, talking about… grown-up things. And I felt this… this weird hollow ache in my chest. Not anger, exactly. More like… invisibility. You start to wonder if anyone even sees you anymore. Not as "Grandma" or "Mom" or "the one who’s always available." But as *you*. The person who actually wanted to learn to paint, or take a pottery class, or just sit in a quiet garden and read a whole book in one go. The person who used to dream about travelling, about seeing places that weren't the grocery store or the school pick-up line. You know? And the worst part is the guilt. The crushing, heavy guilt that sits right on your chest. Because these are your grandchildren. This is your family. And you *should* want to do it. You *should* be happy doing it. And you *are* happy, sometimes. But then there are the other times. The times you’re scooping up another dropped cheerio for the tenth time and you just feel this silent scream bubbling up inside you. And you hate yourself for it. You hate yourself for wanting more. For wanting something different. For not being that perfectly content grandma who only wants to babysit. It’s like you’re stuck in this loop. You don’t want to rock the boat. You don’t want to be a burden, or difficult. You don’t want to let anyone down. So you just keep saying yes. And the weekends fly by. And another year goes by. And you look in the mirror and you see someone who feels a little more tired, a little more faded, and you wonder, where did *I* go? And will anyone ever notice I’m gone? Or even care? It’s a dumb thing to think, I know. But sometimes… sometimes it feels like that. Like a slow disappearing act. And you just don’t know how to stop it. Or if you even have the right to.