“I worry about you working those hours at the bar,” he says, and I can already hear where this is going. “Maybe you should go back to school, finish that business degree. Then you could get a job with normal hours.”
We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. It never gets easier.
“I’m happy with what I’m doing.”
“I know, but bartending doesn’t have much of a future, does it?” He crosses his arms, and I know he thinks he’s being helpful. “If you had that degree, maybe you could manage the place instead of just serving drinks.”
A knot of frustration and guilt twists inside me, along with something that feels too much like shame.
I want to tell him about the flower shop. About the savings account I’ve been building for three years, nickels and dimes and every spare dollar I could scrape together. About how close I am to finally making it real.
But I already told them I was going to get a business degree. Already announced that plan to the whole family, let them be proud of me, let them think I had it figured out. And then I dropped out after a year because I was miserable and couldn’t pretend otherwise.
I can still remember the careful way they saidwe support youwhile their eyes saidwe’re worried.The same way they never had to worry about Julian or Greg.
I can’t do that again. Can’t announce another dream and watch it curdle into another disappointment. The flower shop stays mine until it’s real. Until I can show them a key and an address instead of just another promise I might not keep.
“I’m fine, Dad. I promise.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but lets it go.
We visit for a while longer, talking about nothing important. I love this. I do. The easy rhythm of family, the way conversation flows without anyone trying too hard. But underneath the comfort, there’s a weight I can’t put down. Every smile takes a little more effort than it should. Every question about my life is a landmine I have to step around.
I’m not exhausted by them. I’m exhausted by all the things I can’t say.
I’m gathering my things to leave when a familiar sedan pulls into the driveway behind my car.
Julian climbs out first. He’s the oldest, the responsible one, the son who followed Dad into the shipping business and never once complained about it. On the other side, his wife Harper emerges holding a Tupperware container.
“Hi, guys!” Harper waves with her free hand, her smile wide and warm. “I brought chocolate chip cookies.”
Julian shakes his head as they walk toward us. “She spent half the morning baking because we had an argument–”
“It’s not really an argument,” Harper interjects. “More of a differing opinion.”
“About what?” Mom asks, accepting the cookies.
“Julian wants to buy a completely impractical sports car.”
“It doesn’t have to be practical.” Julian grins. “It’ll be fun.”
“And what about when we have kids someday? The car you want has no back seat.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
Harper looks at my parents, her expression pleading. “He’s nuts, right?”
Dad shoots Julian an apologetic look. “She has a point about the practicality.”
Mom nods.
But I catch Julian’s eye and flash him a grin. “I say go for it.”
He laughs and throws an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug that smells like his cologne and feels like safety. “I knew I could count on you, sis.”
Harper rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. She always smiles when she looks at Julian. They’re so in love it’s almost obscene, the way she lights up whenever he walks into a room.
I watch them, and something aches behind my ribs.
