Sometimes you just get the call. The one where your mom’s voice is… too even. Like she’s reading from a script, but the script is just really bad news. You know that feeling when the air goes still and your stomach drops and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything around you? The hum of the mini-fridge in your tiny studio apartment, the siren wailing faintly down the block, the pile of textbooks on the floor—all the things you’ve been chasing, working towards, like they’re suddenly irrelevant. It’s Nana, of course. Always Nana. She’s had the bad knees for years, the hip that’s been *an issue* since before I was born. But now it’s… more. She fell. Again. And now she needs a walker, and maybe a ramp, and just… everything’s changing. You know how it is. You move halfway across the country, starting this new career, this shiny new life you’ve been busting your ass for, trying to prove something to everyone, especially yourself. You’re supposed to be in this accelerated program, head down, focused. Analyzing data, writing reports, networking like your life depends on it. And then this. It’s like a sudden, brutal re-evaluation of all your priorities. What are you DOING here, when she’s there? And how do you balance the drive, the ambition, the very real financial precariousness of being a fresh grad with… this? This incredibly human, incredibly urgent pull towards home, towards the people who built you. You feel this desperate need to fix it, to go back, even though you know you can’t. You’re stuck in this liminal space, watching someone you love deteriorate from a thousand miles away, while simultaneously trying to convince everyone, including yourself, that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. It's a kind of helplessness that gnaws at you, a slow, steady burn.