I own a small business. Have for thirty years. It’s been my life, my identity. I built it from nothing. Now I run it, still. Mostly from my phone, between appointments, while waiting in hallways. Because my mother, nearing ninety, needs me. She needs a lot. And has for a long time. My father passed five years ago, leaving her to me. She was never easy, even then. Now, it’s worse. The memory issues, the stubbornness, the endless cycle of doctors and aides and what-ifs. I’m fifty-three. Too old to start over, too young to just… stop. My kids are grown, off doing their own thing. They call, sometimes. Ask how Grandma is. I tell them she’s fine, because what else am I supposed to say? The truth? The truth is, I resent her. Not her, exactly. But her needs. Her relentless, all-consuming needs. I wish—I actually WISH—that she would just need me a little less. Just for a week. A day. An hour. So I could breathe. So I could think about MY business, MY life, for once. I hate feeling this way. It’s a terrible thing to admit, even to myself. But it’s there, a constant dull ache behind my ribs. A tiny, mean little whisper that just won’t shut up. I help her, I do everything. But every time the phone rings, every time the aide calls, every time I have to cancel a meeting because she’s fallen again… a part of me just snaps. And that whisper gets louder.