“It’s not your responsibility.”, my mother tells me as I talk to him at one o’clock in the morning, trying to calm him down in an anxiety attack.
“We’re just talking”, I say.
“Do you feel responsible?” my grandfather asks, watching me tap my fingers repeatedly on the table after hanging up.
“I’m just making sure he gets his medicine.”, I say.
Am I doing something wrong? Am I missing something? Isn’t our job in this world to see one another, take care of one another?
I just don’t know.
It is not my responsibility, but if I don’t do it, I am not sure he will survive.