I’m thinking about putting my mom in assisted living. There, I said it. Out loud. Or, you know, typed it into the void. This whole thing feels… it feels like a punch to the gut and a desperate laugh at the same time. I mean, I don't even know how I got here. I was supposed to be, what, a teacher? Making a difference? Not a — whatever. Not someone looking up facilities that smell like industrial cleaner and old people. She’s not even *old-old*, not really. Just… demanding. Increasingly. And I’m exhausted. The worst part is the guilt. It’s like a physical weight, pressing down on my chest when I even *think* about it. My mother, the woman who practically invented the word "independent." She taught me, for God's sake. Retired for what, five years? And now it's like she expects me to be her personal assistant, chef, and entertainment director. Everything is "I need this" and "I need that." And if I don't drop everything, if I even suggest she ask one of the church ladies – who, by the way, would bend over backwards for her, because everyone *knows* her – it's a look. That look. The one that says, "I raised you better than this." Like I’m some kind of monster for having… plans. Or a life. Or just needing to sleep for more than three hours straight. It's not like we have options out here, either. This isn't some big city where you can just disappear into the crowd. This is *here*. Everyone knows everyone's business before you even wake up. So if I do this, it’s going to be a whole THING. The whispers, the pitying looks. "Oh, poor Carol, her daughter put her away." God, I can practically hear it already. And then there's the money – another layer of delightful stress. But honestly? Part of me, the part I hate, the part that makes me feel like a complete and utter FAILURE, just wants to scream, "I DON'T CARE." I just want to be able to close my door and not hear her calling my name. Just once. Is that so bad? I mean I don't even — whatever. It probably is.