I’m sitting here, in the dim glow of my phone, listening to the hum of the refrigerator because I can't sleep, and honestly, if I sleep too deeply I might not hear one of the kids. Again. It’s always one of them, or my mother, pulling me in different directions, and I feel like a stretched-out rubber band, always about to snap. They're both just… there. Needing. And I’m just… here. Providing. Like a human vending machine. My mom’s been alone since Dad passed, almost two years now. Her house, it’s not even that far, maybe fifteen minutes, but it might as well be on another planet because I simply CANNOT get there. Not regularly, not like she expects. Not when I have two preschoolers who think 'nap time' is a personal affront and 'bedtime' is an elaborate game of hide-and-seek. My sister, bless her heart (and by "bless her heart" I mean "may she trip and fall into a vat of glitter"), lives three hours away and thinks a monthly phone call is sufficient. So it’s just me, the designated family martyr. Last week, Mom called, practically in tears, because her internet wasn’t working. "I haven't talked to anyone all day, sweetie," she wailed, "I'm just so lonely." Meanwhile, I’m trying to break up a fight over a plastic truck and simultaneously clean up a spilled juice box, all while making a valiant attempt at cooking something vaguely nutritious for dinner. I just… snapped. Not at her, never at her, because that would make me a terrible person, right? But internally. I felt this surge of pure, unadulterated FURY. At myself for not being enough, at my sister for being useless, at the universe for this particular hand of cards. I told her I’d call the internet company for her. And I did. While simultaneously trying to explain to a four-year-old why drawing on the walls is not, in fact, a brilliant artistic endeavor. I felt that familiar tightness in my chest, that hot flush that always comes when I’m angry and can’t express it. It's like I’m constantly biting down on my own tongue, swallowing all the frustration until it pools somewhere in my stomach, just festering. And then I smile. Because that’s what I do. So here I am, late at night, staring at my phone. My kids are sleeping soundly, thank god, and my mother is probably still awake, scrolling through Facebook, wondering why I don't visit more often. And I’m just… stuck. Between the demands of these little people who need me for everything, and this other person who needs me to fill the void of her own life. And I’m not sure which one is going to break me first. Probably me.