We all have our places around the table. Mom and Dad sit at either end, while I grab my usual spot to Dad’s right. I claimed it as soon as I was old enough, thinking it would keep me closest to Dad so that I could therefore become his favorite, andthereforedo whatever I wanted, just like my brothers.
Alas, that idea obviously hasn’t come to fruition. But I still sit to his right, and he still grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze as he says, “All right, y’all, time for roses and thorns. Dean’s up first.”
“Because I’m the cutest,” Dean says with a grin.
“Or the youngest,” Dad replies. “But you’re also the cutest, so that works.”
Roses and thorns is a family tradition going back as far as I can remember. Growing up, we ate dinner together at this table every night. And every night, Dad would go around the table and ask us what our favorite part of the day was (our rose) and our least favorite (the thorn).
Cheesy? Sure. But I’ve realized it’s his way of staying connected to us—of knowing what’s going on in our lives.
Dean clears his throat. “The best part of my day was reading a whole book by myself.”
I gasp. “You read a whole book by yourself?”
“Yup.” He smiles proudly as he shoves a scoop of Mom’s famous roasted smashed potatoes in his mouth. “Guess what I read?”
“Hm.” Mack chews thoughtfully for a minute. “Curious George?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
Mack chuckles. “I’ve only read those books to you a thousand times. Is that who you’re going to be for Halloween?”
“No,” Dean replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m going to be a zombie football player. Duh.”
I hide my laugh with my napkin. “Sounds spooky.”
“I’m not scared of zombies.” Dean shovels a forkful of food into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Although Curious George is definitely more friendly than that.”
I reach over the table to give Dean a fist bump. “Proud of you for reading, bud. Will you read someCurious Georgeto me after dinner?”
“Maybe. If I’m not too tired.”
I can’t help but smile. He iscute.I’ve wondered in a vague sort of way if any kids I have will look like him. He’s a Wallace through and through, with his thick blond hair and big brown eyes. Like his daddy, he’s obsessed with horses and Texas football. He also loves it when I paint his nails funky colors—neon blue is his current favorite—and he shares my obsession with all theHotel Transylvaniamovies.
“And your thorn?” Dad asks.
Dean tilts his head back and forth. “The way I write my name isn’t perfect. My teacher keeps asking me to write lowercase letters, but that’s really hard.”
Colt is already reaching for seconds from the plate of pork chops. “Aw, bud, it doesn’t have to be perfect to be good. You’re learning, so cut yourself some slack.”
I probably could take that advice myself.I know in the grand scheme of things I’m young, and it’s okay if I’m not where I want to be yet. I just wish I had the ability to figure out things for myself instead of my parents figuring them out for me.
Thing is, as much as I admire my parents and the life they’ve built, I want something different. Iamdifferent, at least from the women in my family. I want kids, but I also want a successful, fulfilling career. I want to honor my family’s legacy, but I also want some semblance of personal happiness.
I know who I am. I just don’t know where the true, authentic version of myself fits in.
I’m up next for roses and thorns.
“My rose?” I wipe my mouth on my napkin, fighting a grin. “It has to be Ryder saving my life at the rodeo, right? It was weeks ago, but it was so epic that it’s still gotta count.”
Dad chuckles. “Your rose isn’t actually racing in that rodeo?”
“Well, that too.” I glance at Colt across the table, but he’s busy shoving more pork in his face. “Racing was just as exhilarating as I thought it’d be. The crowd, the energy, how fast it all went?—”
“It’s the kind of thing you live for.” Tate gives me a knowing look. “So are you gonna do it again?”
“Lord, I hope not,” Mom says with an exhausted sigh.
