I see those kids come in the coffee shop, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, fresh out of college, ordering their fancy oat milk lattes and talking about their futures. And I look at them, really look, and I see myself. Not the me that is now, pushing sixty and feeling every single year in my knees, but the me that was then. Twenty-two, living in a studio apartment no bigger than this back room, sleeping on a futon that always smelled a little bit like stale coffee even then. I remember the weight of the phone book, remember flipping through the yellow pages, page after page of jobs. Accountant, architect, advertising… it all just blurred into one big, overwhelming mess. I’d just close it, push it away, tell myself I’d figure it out tomorrow. And tomorrow turned into next week, and next week into next month. It was easier to just make coffee, to have someone tell me exactly what to do, than to pick something. Anything. It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at a thousand different paths, and every single one of them looked exactly the same and equally terrifying. So I just… stayed put. Made lattes, scraped by, paid the rent. And now here I am, still making lattes. Still scraping by. My kids are grown, got their own lives, their own bills. And sometimes I look at their steady jobs, their decent houses, and I feel this ache. Not resentment, not exactly. More like… a dull thud, right here in my chest. Like a chance I missed. A train that pulled out of the station and I just stood there watching it go. I see the worry in their eyes sometimes, those young ones, when they order their drinks. The way they bite their lip, or stare out the window, like they’re also standing on that cliff, only they don’t know it yet. I want to tell them. To grab them by the shoulders and tell them to PICK SOMETHING. Anything. Even if it’s the wrong thing, at least you’re moving. But I just smile, hand them their coffee, and say “Have a good one.” Because what would I even say? What right do I have to tell them anything when I’m still here, wiping down the counter, wondering if I’ll ever be able to retire. The sun comes up, I make coffee, the sun goes down. And some nights, like tonight, I wonder if anyone else feels this heavy. This stuck.