I lean across the center console and kiss him on the cheek. I should make it fast and run into the house, but I linger. I press my forehead against his temple for a moment. “I’m going to miss you.”

Somehow, I find the motivation to pull away, leave the car, and cross the dew-moistened lawn. With one last wave at him, I let myself into the house.

As I shut the front door, the weight of this place descends on my shoulders. There’s sunlight pouring in through the many windows, but it feels dark. I take my shoes off and walk down the cold marble hallway toward the kitchen, where I toss my things on one of the island stools before heading to my dad’s room.

The smell reaches my nose before I’ve even reached the door, and I cough to clear my sinuses. It doesn’t help. As soon as I take another breath, the scent coats my nasal passage and throat. When I walk inside the room, my mom’s back is to me as she busily changes my dad’s diaper. He’s on his side with his back to me, too—and other parts of him that I never imagined I’d see when I was younger.

“Hi, Ma, Ba,” I say, bright and chipper like I’m overjoyed to be here, like I’ve been taught.

“Come help me turn him,” my mom says instead of hello.

I head to the other side of the bed and smile when I see my dad’s eyes are open. He’s not moaning. That has to be a good sign. I lightly touch his arm. “Hi, Daddy.”

His body sways as my mom wipes him down on the other side, and he squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces. He’s not in physical pain. My mom is efficient, but she’s gentle. But I understand what’s going on.

He hates this.

And so it resumes. I help change his diaper even though I know the process brings him shame. When we’re done, my mom leaves, and I feed him even though I know he doesn’t want to eat. I realize we’re the same, the two of us. Neither of us can speak. Our lives are both dictated by other people.

THE NEXT WEEK, PRISCILLA ANNOUNCES THAT SHE HAS TO FLY back to New York City for two weeks. She leaves a day later.

Then it’s just me and my mom.

And my dad, of course.

All of us are trapped in this enormous echoing house. We’re together, but each of us is painfully alone.

The days grow impossibly long and gray, and I settle into a sort of numbness as I go through the motions. Gradually, the mistakes start happening.

My musician’s hands, usually steady, begin to drop things. A syringe full of liquid food. A pail of warm water during bath time. A jar of moisturizing cream. My spatial awareness decreases abysmally, and my body starts to look like a bruised peach as I run into more and more things. My ability to focus disappears. I forget things. I zone out midsentence. I walk straight into closed doors.

Caring for my dad becomes even more stressful as I worry that I’m either forgetting to give him his meds or accidentally giving him twice the proper dose. I make a point of writing everything down, but what if I wrote something down and then forgot to actually do it? I arrange the syringes and measuring cups at the beginning of the day in such a way that I can tell if I’ve given a feeding or dose of meds. My mom hates it because it looks cluttered, but she tolerates it for me.

Text messages and phone calls from Quan make my days bearable. Photos of Rose’s cat help, too. She’s recently given it a horrible haircut that makes it look like a stegosaurus, and its hate-filled stares photograph well. She and Suzie check in on me from time to time, asking how I am. They care about me and offer kind platitudes like Awww, so sad to hear things are so tough or I wish there was something I could do to help, but I know they don’t understand what I’m going through. No one does, not even Quan or my mom or Priscilla.

This is difficult for me because of a failing unique to myself, and yes, I believe it’s a failing. I want to be the kind of person who finds meaning in caring for those who need it. That kind of person is good. They are heroes who have all my respect.

I’m just not that kind of person.

My dad’s suffering wears on me in a way I can’t explain. His pain, the way he’s trapped in his bed, trapped in his life, when it’s not what he wants. Knowing that this could potentially go on for years. Knowing that everything I do only makes it worse. Knowing that it’s hopeless.

Near the end of the two weeks, my mind works almost nonstop trying to figure out how I can escape from this. I can’t use my career as an excuse to leave. I’d just play in hellish circles. Maybe if I had a small accident and broke a leg? No, I could still manage while I was in a wheelchair. It would just make things more difficult. I’d need to break both my hands, and I can’t bring myself to do that. If I didn’t heal correctly, I’d never play again, and what if that inconceivable day came when music spoke to me again? What would I do then? Would my life even be worth living?

What I would really like is a lobotomy. I don’t want to feel anymore. I would give up all the joy in my life so that I didn’t have to feel the way I do right now. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I could be certain that I’d still be able to fulfill my obligations afterward. That’s all that matters now, seeing this through.

As it is, I live for the hours when I sleep. Eight precious hours before I have to do it all over again. But I often wake up in the middle of the night and cry as I fist my hands and stare up at the ceiling, silently screaming, I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this.

Guests come to visit, including Julian and his mom, and I smile at them like I’m supposed to. My mom loves to entertain visitors in my dad’s room while I work in the background. She praises me then, tells her friends how I’ve put my career on hold to care for my dad, how self-sacrificing I am, what a great daughter I am.

Normally, I’d drink in her approval like manna from heaven, but I can’t in this circumstance. If they only knew …

What they see is not who I am. It’s the mask that they love, the mask that’s suffocating me.

Julian’s mom is the most impressed of anyone, and when he begins messaging me more and more, I believe it’s her doing. She wants me for a daughter-in-law—she pulls me aside during a visit and tells me so herself. I smile and tell her that would be a dream come true. What else could I say?

A cynical voice in my head suggests that perhaps what she wants most of all is for me to care for herself and her husband this same way someday. The thought fills me with cold terror. I don’t think I would survive doing this again.

At the end of Julian’s latest visit, he lingers behind in my dad’s room with me as my mom leads his mom and a small group of friends from their church out.

I’m turning my dad to his other side, propping pillows around him to keep him comfortable, when Julian says, “You’re really good at this. I was surprised to see it.”

“Thanks,” I manage to say, keeping my voice light as I flash a quick smile at him. It’s a compliment. I should act flattered. But that’s not how I feel.

I feel like screaming.

When my dad looks properly situated, I go to check the spreadsheet to see if I’ve recorded everything. Then I count the syringes and measuring cups, trying to confirm that I haven’t forgotten anything or given double doses.

As I’m forcing my scattered brain to do the math, Julian approaches me from behind. He runs his hands down my arms and leans down to kiss my nape. Goose bumps stand up on my skin. But they’re not the good kind. I don’t want this. I don’t like this. Not from him.