I just spent a week in Italy. Florence – the Uffizi, the Duomo, just… everywhere you looked was art. I’m an artist, always have been, but it’s never paid the bills. Not really. I teach art classes part-time, dabble in commissions, but it’s always a struggle. A constant, low-level hum of ‘you should have been practical’. My parents, bless them, always said I had a gift, but even they probably secretly wished I’d gone to law school. And now I’m 58, and my mom… she needs help. Real help. She fell again last month. Broke her hip. My sister lives out of state, so it’s mostly me. I visit, I try to help her with things, but she really needs someone there, consistently. An aide. And I had the money. Not a lot, but enough for a few months of someone coming in a couple times a week. Enough to make a difference. But I saw that deal on a flight, and it was now or never. I always wanted to see those masterpieces in person. To just… breathe that air. It was a pilgrimage for me. And I went. Now I’m back, jet-lagged and full of gelato, and the guilt is like a physical thing in my chest. Heavy. My mom is still struggling. She’s trying to be brave, of course, she always does. But I see the worry in her eyes. And I know what I did. I chose beauty over duty. Passion over practicality. AGAIN. And it felt GOOD in the moment. SO good. But now… I just don’t know. Was it selfish? Of course it was. Am I a terrible daughter? Maybe. I just wanted to feel alive for a bit. Like the person I was always supposed to be. Before the bills, before the worry, before everything else. Before the clock ran out on *my* life, too. I don't know if I'll ever shake this feeling.