okay so this is probably like — really bad? I don't even know if it counts as a confession, maybe it's just me being dumb. But like, my grandma, she’s really sick. Not like, gonna die sick, I don't think? But like, she can’t really cook anymore. And her hands shake so bad, it's just hard for her to hold things. So like, I'm the one who cooks now. Which is fine, I guess. I mean, my mom works super long hours, and my dad… well, he's not around much, you know? So it’s usually me, after school. I make dinner for everyone. And tonight, I made congee. It’s her favorite. Like, a comfort thing for her, I think. And the kitchen, it was SO quiet. Usually she’s there, you know? Like, clanking pots, humming, telling me what to do or like, reaching for something she can't quite get to. And I’d always be like, "Aiyoh, Grandma, let me do it!" But she'd always just laugh, you know? And like, it'd always be full of people. My aunties, my cousins, everyone. But tonight, it was just me. And I was stirring the rice, and it felt so… empty. And I don’t know why, but I started thinking, like, REALLY thinking about how much I hate it. The cooking. The cleaning. The whole thing. And it just makes me feel like such a bad person. Because she’s SICK. And I should be grateful I can even do this for her. And it’s not even that much work, really. But sometimes I just wanna like, order a pizza. Or just… not cook. Not have to think about what everyone wants, and if it’s healthy enough, and if she’ll eat it. And I feel so guilty, like, deep down. Like, I should miss her being in the kitchen more. I should miss her making noise. But a part of me, a REALLY small, bad part, is kind of relieved. And that’s the awful part. That’s the part I can’t tell anyone. Because it makes me sound like a monster. And I’m not, I swear. I just… I don’t know. I just wish things were different. I guess.