I suppose this will sound… well, I don’t know what it’ll sound like. Pathetic, probably. Old biddies on the internet, sigh. But here I am, 2:17 AM, and I just closed Facebook after looking at Marjorie’s pictures for the tenth time. Marjorie, bless her heart, has always had a knack for living what looks, from the outside, to be a perfectly curated life. And there she is, in what I believe is Bali, though it could be Thailand, they all sort of blend together, don’t they? Anyway, there she is, in a sarong, sipping something with an umbrella in it, her skin all sun-kissed and smooth. While I… well, I’m here. Here meaning, you know, my little house on the edge of town, the one my husband, God rest his soul, built with his own two hands. Not that it matters, not to anyone else. It's pouring rain outside, has been for three days straight, a real melancholic sort of damp that gets into your bones, even with the heat cranked up. And little Tommy, my grandson, he’s got this croupy cough, the kind that sounds like a seal barking. He’s sleeping now, finally, after a dose of that cherry-flavored syrup, but every little snuffle makes me jump. My daughter, bless her, she’s working a double at the diner, trying to make ends meet after… well, after her own husband left. It’s a pattern, I tell you, a sort of familial predisposition to abandonment, though I suppose that’s a bit dramatic. But still, the point is, it’s not exactly Bali. And I find myself, at my age, feeling this… this surge of what I can only describe as a deeply primitive form of envy. Not for the sarong, mind you, or even the umbrella drink. No, it's the *effortlessness* of it all. The complete lack of obligation, of the constant vigilance that comes with caring for a sick child, even if he’s not really *mine* in the strictest sense. It’s the freedom from the ceaseless drip, drip, drip of responsibility. Marjorie, she’s always been like that. Flits from one glamorous locale to another, never a hair out of place. I remember when we were girls, she’d be off to the city, while I was here, helping Mama with the chickens. Always here. And I just... I wish, for one minute, I could trade places. Just one minute of not having to worry about the grocery bill, or the doctor’s appointment, or whether Tommy’s fever will spike again. Just one minute of sunshine on my face and nothing else to do but… be. And then I think, what would I even *do* if I were there? Probably just worry about what I was forgetting to do back here. It’s a maladaptive coping mechanism, I suppose, this constant self-critique. A habit formed over many, many decades. And now I’ve probably woken Tommy up with my typing. Serves me right.