I just saw this old lady in the supermarket, probably around 66, maybe 67, somewhere in that range, and it just… it just broke me. I was there picking up oat milk – the unsweetened kind, because Mom’s sugars have been a little erratic this week and Dr. Chen said we needed to be extra careful, and of course my sister Ashley, who lives five blocks away, still hasn’t picked up the new glucose monitor even though I texted her at 8 AM on Monday and she read it, I saw the two blue ticks, so you know, just me again, as usual. Anyway, I was in aisle 7, the one with all the canned goods and pasta, right next to the display of seasonal Halloween candy which is already up, mind you, it’s only September 19th. And this woman, she was trying to get a jar of olives off the top shelf, the giant one, like the one you get for a party, and her hands were shaking a little, I could see it from where I was, just a slight tremor as she reached. And then it happened, it just slipped, right out of her grasp, hit the tiled floor with this awful, ear-splitting SMASH, olives and brine just went everywhere, a real mess, like a small, salty explosion. I mean, it was one of those moments where time just stops for a second, right? Everyone in the aisle, maybe ten, fifteen people, all froze. But then, almost immediately, they just… kept going. Like nothing had happened. This woman, she knelt down, or tried to, she was a little unsteady, and she was trying to point at the broken glass, trying to get someone’s attention. She kept saying, "Oh, excuse me, could someone… please, it’s broken, the glass…" and her voice was so small, so apologetic, almost a whisper, like she was afraid of bothering anyone. And people, they just stepped around her. Literally. Like she was an obstacle, a particularly inconvenient shopping cart. I stood there, holding my oat milk, just watching this happen, and I felt this burning in my chest, this raw, hot fury. Not at her, obviously, or even at the people stepping around her, not really. It was at myself, I think, for not doing anything. For just standing there, frozen, watching this replay of something I see every single day, just in a different setting. Because how many times has Mom dropped something, a spoon, her glasses, and I’m the only one who even notices, let alone picks it up? How many times have I been trying to ask for help, for a minute, for a break, and it’s like I’m speaking a foreign language? And she looked so vulnerable, this woman, just kneeling there, kind of hunched over, her grey hair escaping from a clip, and the reflection of the fluorescent lights glinting off the broken glass. And I thought, for a fleeting second, about going over, about offering to find a store employee, or just helping her up. But then I didn’t. I just… I couldn’t. My feet felt glued to the floor. My throat felt tight. Because if I helped her, what then? Would she be grateful? Would she look at me with those eyes that just… absorb everything, the way Mom does, like I’m her entire world and I’m supposed to fix it all? Or worse, would she just assume I was supposed to, that it was my job? And then I’d be drawn into it, another obligation, another person to worry about, another thing on the endless list that already includes making sure Mom takes her evening meds at 7 PM exactly, and remembering to call the pharmacy about the refill on her blood pressure medication which is due on Thursday, and making sure I still get my own work done, my actual job, the one that pays the bills for both of us, because god knows Ashley isn’t offering to help with that. So I just… I kept walking. I ducked around the display of Halloween candy and headed for the checkout. And I felt like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. I felt like one of those people who stepped around her, uncaring, oblivious. I felt like all the anger I have stored up, all the resentment, just turned inward, and it made me feel sick to my stomach. Because I wanted to help her, I truly did, but I’m just so utterly, completely depleted. There’s nothing left. Not for her, not for me, not for anyone. It’s like I’m running on fumes, and even the fumes are starting to run out. And now I’m home, it’s 2:17 AM, and I’m staring at my phone, typing this out, and all I can see is that old woman’s face, etched with that quiet despair, and the way the glass just sparkled, sharp and dangerous, on the cold tile floor. And I just… I can’t stop thinking about it. And about how I didn't help. And about how I knew exactly how she felt, being invisible when you desperately need someone to just *see* you.