You know how sometimes a sound just… stops? Like the dryer cycling down, that last little hum before silence. Or the refrigerator finally kicking off in the middle of the night. That kind of quiet where you can almost feel the air settling. My house has been that quiet for, what, almost a week now. Five years, it was like living in a constant hum. A low, persistent buzz that was always there, even when it wasn't. Like the fridge again, you just got used to it, you stopped really hearing it until it shut off. And then the quiet is SO loud. I mean, I did my best. Anyone would tell you. Anyone who saw the way I’d mash up his food, spoonful by spoonful, or change the sheets three times a day sometimes. Five years of that. And you know, you just keep going. You don't think about anything else, really. Just the next meal, the next pill, the next time he needs to go to the bathroom. You tell yourself it's love, it's duty, it's what you signed up for. And it is. It absolutely is. But you also just… stop existing, really. Like I used to dream about lesson plans, about getting those kids ready for the state tests. Now? My dreams were usually about trying to find his slippers or whether I remembered to give him his evening dose. Thrilling stuff. And he's gone now. Peaceful, they said. At the hospice. And you know what I did? You know what I did that first night? I slept. Really slept. Like a rock, they say. I didn't wake up once. No phantom calls, no listening for the shuffle, no jumping at every little creak in the house. Just… out. And when I woke up, the sun was already high, and it was that quiet I was talking about. And the first thing I felt wasn’t sadness. It wasn't relief, not exactly. It was just… this incredible, deep, awful GUILT. For sleeping. For not missing the hum. I mean I don't even — whatever. Some things you just keep to yourself, right?