I saw a picture today of a girl, maybe twenty-four, sitting on a bare floor in some cramped apartment eating cold Thai food out of a box. It wasn't the food I wanted. It was the silence. The absolute, deafening goddamn silence. I haven't heard silence in forty-two years. Not real silence. Not the kind where your brain actually stops vibrating and you can just... be. I have spent my entire adult life being the background noise for everyone else’s dramas and I am so tired I can feel it in my marrow. When I was that age, I thought I was busy. I thought I was "stressed" because I had a few deadlines and a small bank account. What a joke. I didn't know that my entire existence was about to become a series of demands that would never, ever end. First it was the kids, then it was my mother’s stroke, now it’s Arthur. It’s always something. A diaper, a doctor’s appointment, a pill, a glass of water, a complaint. I look at that girl on the floor and I want to scream at her to stay there. Don't let them in. Don't ever let them think you're the one who handles things. Because once you start, they never let you stop. I spent three hours today cleaning pureed carrots out of the upholstery. Three hours. Arthur threw the bowl because he couldn't remember how to hold the spoon and he got frustrated. I get it. I really do. It’s a tragedy. It’s heartbreaking to watch your husband of forty years turn into a stranger who doesn't know how to use a fork. But I’m the one on my knees with the scrub brush while he stares at the television like a goddamn statue. And then my daughter calls and asks if I can watch the twins this weekend because she’s "so burnt out." Burnt out? She has no idea. I mean I don't even — whatever. I haven't eaten a meal sitting down in a decade. I eat standing over the sink. I eat the scraps off other people's plates. I eat whatever is fast and cold and doesn't require me to use a burner because if I turn on the stove, someone will need something that requires me to walk away from it. It’s pathetic. I’m seventy-one years old and I feel like a servant in my own house. No, not a servant. Servants get paid. They get days off. They get to go home to a place where nobody knows their name. I’m a ghost that carries heavy laundry bags and wipes up spills. People say I'm a saint. "Oh, you're so strong, I don't know how you do it." Shut up. Seriously. Just shut the hell up. You know how I do it? I do it because if I don't, everyone dies. Or the house burns down. Or the world stops spinning. I do it because I was raised to believe that my value is measured by how much of myself I can set on fire to keep everyone else warm. Well, I’m out of wood. I’m just cinders at this point. I’m smoldering and it smells like shit. I’m not being "strong," I’m being trapped. I want to go back to that apartment. I want to sit on a floor that hasn't been mopped in a week and eat something spicy and cheap while the sun goes down and I don't have to answer a single question. "Where are my socks?" "What's for dinner?" "Why are you being so quiet?" I'm being quiet because I'm TRYING TO REMEMBER WHO I WAS before I became your personal 24-hour concierge service. I used to like things. I used to have opinions that weren't about brands of detergent or the timing of heart medication. I mean I don't even — it doesn't matter now. My knees hurt. My back is a mess from lifting him in and out of the tub. He’s heavy. He’s dead weight most days and he doesn't even see me anymore. He sees a caregiver. He sees a pair of hands. I look in the mirror and I don't even recognize the woman looking back. She looks like a crumpled paper bag. She looks exhausted. She looks ANGRY. And yeah, I am angry. I’m FURIOUS. I’ve given away every single minute of my life to people who just take it and ask for seconds without even looking up from their phones. Every time I think I’m going to get a break, something else happens. My son loses his job. My sister gets sick. It’s like they can smell when I’m about to sit down. They pounce. And I say yes. Every damn time, I say yes. I hate myself for it. I hate them for asking. But mostly I just hate the noise. The constant, unending noise of other people's needs. It’s like a high-pitched whistle that never stops. I’d trade my house, my car, and every "Mother of the Year" plaque I’ve ever been gifted for just one hour of that girl’s stillness. I walked past a bookstore yesterday and saw a travel guide for Italy. I used to want to go to Florence. I used to study art. I have a degree in Art History that is currently being used as a coaster for a bottle of thickener for Arthur's water. That’s my life. That’s the sum total of seventy years. It’s not like I can leave. I’m the "responsible" one. I’m the rock. Rocks don't get to go to Italy. Rocks just sit there and get rained on until they turn to sand. And nobody asks the rock if it’s tired of being stepped on.