I woke up this morning to the smell of burnt toast and the distant sound of my mother humming off-key from the kitchen, which usually means she’s forgotten something on the stove again. It’s a familiar soundtrack to my life now, this low hum of anxiety that never quite goes away. We’re hosting Thanksgiving, which I’ve done every year since I moved back, and somehow that’s become my permanent job description. The oven’s on the fritz, the guest list keeps changing because my aunt decided she’d rather fly to Boca, and I’m pretty sure I saw a mouse skitter across the pantry floor last night when I was trying to find the good gravy boat. My siblings, bless their absent hearts, will show up an hour late with store-bought pie and then complain about the wine selection. Last year, Sarah actually asked if I needed help clearing the table after dessert, like it was a novel idea. I mean I don't even — whatever. My dad just stares out the window most days. He doesn’t recognize me sometimes, which is like a punch to the gut even though I know it’s not him. I try to explain it to my brother, Mark, but he just says, "He’s doing fine, he just needs to get out more." Like I’m holding him prisoner or something. I try to remember the last time Mark actually called to check in, not just to ask for an update on dad’s latest doctor's appointment, but to ask *me* how *I* was doing. It’s like being trapped in a house made of glass, everyone can see in, but no one can hear you scream. Or maybe I’m not screaming, maybe it’s just this dull, constant ache in my chest that feels like a stone. A cold, heavy stone. I looked at my hands this morning, too. They’re getting rougher, tiny cracks around the cuticles from all the dish soap, calluses from scrubbing. They used to be so soft, I remember that. Now they look like they belong to someone much older, someone who’s been toiling away, out in the elements. And it’s not even winter yet. I just want to disappear into the quiet sometimes, just for an hour. But then the timer goes off for Mom’s meds, or Dad needs help finding his glasses, or the dog starts barking at the mailman. And then it’s just... more. Always more. And tomorrow, I have to figure out how to thaw a twenty-pound turkey. Alone.