I’m supposed to be an artist, a real one, you know? The kind that people remember, the kind that leaves a mark. I always thought I would be. Every single day, every day for forty years I built that up in my head, this image of me standing in front of my canvas, creating something meaningful. Something important. And now... now I just stare at it. It's just... white. Blank. Every single day, just white. My mother, she always said I had a gift. She’d watch me, even when I was a kid, just sketching, doodling, and she’d say “Oh, my little artist, you’ll change the world with your colors.” And I believed her. I really did. She was always there, always in the background of my studio, a quiet presence. Sometimes she’d bring me tea, sometimes she’d just sit and watch me work for hours. She loved my work, every piece, even the bad ones. She was my biggest fan, my only fan sometimes, it felt like. And then she... she had to move. The doctor said it was time, that she needed more care than I could give her, and I knew it was true. I really did. It wasn’t a shock, not really. We talked about it for months, her memory slipping, those little everyday things getting harder. So we found a place, a really nice one, with gardens and activities and people who could look after her properly. I moved her in myself. Packed up her little things, her photos, her favorite blanket. She held my hand, looked at me with those eyes that were starting to look a little lost, and she just said "You'll still paint, won't you, dear?" And I said yes. Of course I said yes. I told her I would paint every single day, every day, just for her. And I meant it. But now, it’s been two weeks, two weeks since she moved, two weeks since I retired, two weeks since I packed up her life into boxes and placed them in a room that isn't hers. And I haven't touched a brush. I come into the studio, my studio, the one I always dreamed of, the one where I was going to make my legacy, and I just... I just stare at that blank canvas. It’s mocking me. It’s saying “Where is it? Where’s your grand vision?” And I have nothing. Not a single idea. It's just gone. I thought... I thought this was what I wanted. To have all this time, all this freedom, no more deadlines, no more demands. Just me and my art. But without her, without her watching me, without her believing in me, what is it for? I just... I feel like I did something wrong. Like I abandoned her, even though everyone says I did the right thing. “It’s for her own good,” they all say. “She’s happy there.” But am I happy here? Am I even an artist without her? I don’t know. I just feel so incredibly empty. Like a blank canvas myself.