It's sad, and I won't pretend otherwise. Watching a parent slow down is a quiet kind of grief, the kind that shows up on ordinary Tuesdays. And under it sits the plain truth that every year taken is one fewer left. I'm one step closer to the end of this story, and so is everyone I love. But I'm here. After everything I've been through, I'm here to drive my dad to his appointments and wheel him through the door. I'm here to hold my grandbabies and watch a brand-new life look back at me with wide, curious eyes. I didn't always know I'd get this part. So I hold both: the ache of how fast it goes and the gratitude that I'm still in it. The lesson of the line has never changed. The waiting is slow, the years are fast, and the people at the door are the whole point.