I’m not even sure why I’m putting this here, it’s not some big horrible secret, it’s just… it feels a bit pathetic. But my therapist, Dr. Albright, she says sometimes it helps to externalize the internal dialogue, you know? Put it out there, see what sticks. She’s very big on object permanence for emotions. Anyway. It’s about my daughter, Sarah. She’s 34, married, two kids, lives in Arizona, and she’s juggling two jobs, barely keeping her head above water. And my ex-husband, her father, he’s… well, he’s 78 now, and he’s really gone downhill. Stage four COPD, congestive heart failure, the whole damn medical bingo card. He needs round-the-clock care, which, you know, costs a fortune. I divorced him when I was 52, after 28 years of… well, of whatever that was. Friends, the ones I had left after that whole shitshow, they took sides. Mostly his. Said I was "abandoning" him. Funny, isn't it? Like I was the one who abandoned a damn thing. I had to start over completely, found a job at the library, bought a tiny little condo, rebuilt my whole goddamn life brick by brick. So when Sarah called, nearly in tears, saying she just *couldn't* coordinate the home health aids anymore, that they were constantly calling out, or showing up late, or not at all… and her father, bless his stubborn heart, was making it impossible, complaining about everything… well. My first thought, and this is the stupid part, the shameful part, was pure, unadulterated relief that it wasn't *my* problem anymore. It’s a fucked up thought, I know. My own flesh and blood, struggling, and I’m sitting here, in my quiet little condo, sipping tea, thinking "thank god that’s not me." It’s a complete regression, cognitively speaking. Like I’m back in the divorce court, feeling that primal need to protect myself from the wreckage. I remember when his first aide quit, like, two months ago. Sarah called, exasperated, "Mom, he told her she was incompetent! He just yelled at her until she cried!" And I just… I bit my tongue. Because I wanted to say, *Yeah, that’s him. That’s exactly him.* But I didn’t. Because what good would that do? Just make her feel worse. So what I actually said was, "Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. That’s really rough." Which, honestly, felt like a lie. Because a part of me wasn’t sorry at all. A part of me was thinking, *See? See what I dealt with for thirty years?* It’s a bitter little seed, that thought. I thought I’d rooted it out by now, after all these years of therapy, all this work on myself. Dr. Albright would probably call it a residual resentment, a manifestation of unprocessed anger. But it’s more than that. It’s a deep, shameful satisfaction. And I feel like a truly awful person for it. Last week, Sarah called again. One of the night nurses just… didn’t show. And her dad fell trying to get to the bathroom. Broke his hip. He’s in the hospital now, probably for good. And Sarah, she sounded so exhausted, she just said, "Mom, I just can’t… I can’t do this anymore. I just want to scream." And I told her to scream. To go ahead and scream. And then I offered to fly out there, to help her sort through the hospital stuff, to deal with the insurance. And she said, "No, Mom, really, it’s okay. You have your own life." And I just… I let her. I let her say no. I didn’t push. And that’s the confession, I guess. That I was relieved she didn’t take me up on it. I still am.