Is it possible for a weight you didn’t even realize you were carrying to just… lift? And when it does, are we allowed to feel a quiet relief, almost a peace, without feeling like a monster? I’ve been thinking about this a lot since last Tuesday, since I got that call. It was late, maybe 10:30, and the phone rang, startling me. I was just settling in with my tea and a book, one of those quiet evenings I've come to cherish now that the house is truly empty. My husband, bless his soul, was already asleep. It was my son-in-law, Mark. He sounded… different. Not panicked, not even particularly sad, just… flat. He said, "Mom, it's about Dad. He… he passed away this evening." He didn't even say his father, just "Dad," as if he knew that's what I’d always called him, even after we separated, even after all these years. My ex-husband. Chronically unemployed, mostly. A kind of permanent fixture in the background of our lives, always there, always needing *something*, always somehow… present. And in that moment, instead of the rush of grief I suppose I was supposed to feel, there was just this strange, hollow space. A kind of quiet unfolding. It was like a knot I hadn’t known was in my stomach for decades just… loosened. I mumbled something about being sorry, about calling in the morning, and hung up. Then I just sat there, the book forgotten, the tea growing cold. And it wasn't sadness that came over me, not really. It was… release. He was never a bad man, not truly. Just… absent. Even when he was physically there. He was one of those people who seemed to exist in a perpetual state of almost-something. Almost getting a job. Almost starting a project. Almost contributing. And I, for so long, filled in those gaps. The income, the childcare, the mental load of making a life function. I became the anchor, the engine, the entire steering mechanism, while he drifted along, occasionally offering a vague "good idea" or a half-hearted attempt at fixing a leaky faucet that would inevitably make it worse. For years, my identity was so intertwined with managing his unmanaged life. Being the one who made sure the bills were paid, the kids were fed, the house didn’t fall apart, all while grappling with the quiet shame of his unemployment, the whispered questions from other parents at school pick-up. I always felt like I had to be strong, to project an image of everything being fine, because if I cracked, the whole flimsy structure would collapse. And what then? What would happen to the children? (And, if I'm brutally honest, what would happen to *me*?) When the kids grew up and left, when the necessity of keeping up appearances for their sake faded, that’s when the quiet resentment truly began to bloom. It wasn’t anger, not usually. It was more like a slow, seeping fatigue. The realization that I had spent so much of my prime, my energy, my very self, in a constant state of propping up another person who never seemed to want to stand on his own. I had wanted more. I had wanted a partner, an equal. And I had settled for… this. For a life defined by what *he* wasn't doing. We eventually separated, quietly, amicably enough. He moved in with his sister, always a kind of safety net for him. And even then, even after, there was always that low hum in the background – a worry, a responsibility, a faint, lingering thread of attachment that felt more like an obligation than love. Would he be okay? Would he find something? Would he just… fade away? And now he has. Faded away. And I’m sitting here, a widow in a way, but not feeling like one. Feeling instead like a tight knot has finally come undone. It's not celebratory. It's not joyful. It's just… peace. A quiet, profound peace. And I feel guilty for it. Deeply, irrationally guilty. But also, undeniably, free. Am I the only one who has ever felt this kind of freedom, this unexpected lightness, at the passing of someone who was, perhaps, more of a burden than a beloved? Anyone else out there carrying a secret like this?