I just sat through a whole damn quarterly review meeting. My hands, man. They wouldn't stop shaking. Shaking so bad I had to lock 'em under the conference table, clasped so tight my knuckles were white. Mr. Davies, fifty-something, my manager, he was leading it. Talking about Q2 projections, cost-cutting initiatives. All this corporate jargon, and all I could think about was my hands. How bad they were doing the merengue under the table. He asked me directly, “What’s your take on the new supplier, Ahmed?” My name, it felt like a slap. My dad, back home, he’d be so proud. My son, he's probably studying for his finals right now. Both expecting so much. My voice came out, surprisingly steady, like nothing was wrong. I even made eye contact, smiled even. But inside? My gut was doing flip-flops. My heart was like a drum solo gone wrong. The tremble was spreading up my arms. It’s been building, this… feeling. This fear. Since my mother called last week. *“Your cousin, Tariq, he’s doing so well. Opened a new shop. You… you are still just working for someone?”* That’s what she said. Just like that. And I know what she means. Back home, by my age, you’re supposed to *be* something. Own something. Not just a manager, even a department manager, for someone else’s company. This whole quarterly review, all these numbers and targets, it felt like a big fat reminder of how I’m failing. I managed to keep it together for the full ninety minutes. Ninety goddamn minutes. Afterward, I walked back to my office, slow, just in case someone saw. My hands, they still felt like they were buzzing, like I’d stuck my fingers in a socket. I closed my office door, locked it. Sat down. And then I just stared at my reflection in the dark screen of my computer. The man staring back, he looked tired. Defeated. And yeah, scared. Like a rabbit caught in headlights. My phone just buzzed. It’s my son. "Dad, how was work?" How was work? I could laugh. I really could. Or maybe I just want to scream. I’m supposed to be the strong one. The one who came here, made it. The one who built something. And all I can do is hide my shaking hands under a table. What kind of success is that, really? What kind of man am I? I should call my mother back. Tell her about the Q2 projections. Tell her how I contributed. But I can’t. My hands are still too busy doing their own thing. And my head, it’s just… loud. So loud.