I retired abroad, like I always said I would, and my mother is failing now, and I get the calls and the emails, the updates from the home, and I see the photos, and her eyes are getting dimmer, and her face is thinner, and I feel this, this SHARP pang, but it’s not exactly guilt, not truly, it’s more… a recognition, a cold hard fact I knew would come. I made my choices, and I lived my life, and that life took me far away, and I knew what that meant, even then, but you don't really know it until it's happening. I spent decades caring for students, for my partner, for a career, and it consumed everything, every waking thought, every spare hour, and I was GOOD at it, I was valued, and I was needed, and I thought that was enough. And now I sit here in the quiet, in this beautiful country I chose, and the sun shines, and the world is calm, and I am not needed by anyone anymore, not really, and my mother, the one who always needed me in some way, however small, she doesn't know who I am half the time now anyway. I suppose I could go back. I have the means, the time, but what would I do? Be a spectator? A sudden presence after years of absence? It feels… performative, somehow. Like trying to fix something that was already broken by design, by my design, and I don't know what that says about me, but it doesn't feel good, and it’s not going to change anything now, is it.