Page 28 of One Last Rodeo

That’s the messed-up part about being a woman. Men get to live as many lives as they want to without anyone batting an eye as they pivot. Marriage, career, kids, if they want. And if they get someone pregnant, life just keeps going for them without even a pause. Which is exactly what happened with my ex.

But women? We’re the ones judged if we don’t have kids and put our career first. And judged again if we do choose to have familyand take a step back from working. Or try to do both. Anytime there’s conversations about ‘balancing’ work and family, it’s always centered around women.

How are you balancing being a working mom?

Why don’t men have anything to balance?

I know the answer. It’s because women are usually doing the physical and emotional labor of raising families while trying to manage their careers.

I don’t know what I want in my future anymore. Marriage, kids… maybe I’d be perfectly content without any of it. Maybe I’d just want my career I've worked so hard for. Maybe I would enjoy having a family to come home to that I get to build. There are many ways to build a meaningful life… Maybe, I want it all.

But that’s why I’m here. Changing up my routine and my life. Trying on a different career so that I can figure out what sticks and what doesn’t. I don’t know what I want because I’ve spent my whole life focused on making other people proud. I’ve lived like my parent’s expectations were commandments carved into stone. And the punchline is, all that perfectionism didn’t even work.

My parents talk about my youngest sister, Isla—an engineer in North Carolina—and Daniela, a marketing Vice President for her husband’s egg-and-whiskey business, like they hung the moon. But me? No matter how many lives I save, I never feel like it’s been enough for them. And maybe they have expressed their approval in the past. I’ve just missed it because I don’t accept compliments well. The last few years feel like a blur now.

“It was a difficult decision to walk away from surgery,” I finish softly. “And maybe not a permanent one. I'm not sure what I'll do after this.”

Jensen’s brows pull together like he wants to understand me better but knows I don’t like to be pushed. He takes another sip of water, gaze drifting over the backyard of the bar. There are a few couples playing corn-hole off to the side, but for the most part, we're cloaked in the dark shadow of the building and given complete privacy to talk.

“So… you like it so far? Working the rodeo circuit?”

“I do,” I admit, and that's the first time I've said that part out loud. “It’s different.”

“And that’s what you wanted? Different?”

I nod. “Yes.”For now.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Hayes mentioned you’re sort of his sister-in-law.”

“That’s right. My sister married his wife’s brother.”

He hums thoughtfully. “And what’s your family like?”

At first, I’m surprised by his question. Then I realize, oh,right.

This is the kind of small talk people make when they’re hanging out with friends in casual settings. Or dates. And apparently, according to June, I’m overdue for one. Like, ten years overdue. But this isn't a date. This is just two people who work together having a conversation. Maybe I should practice on Jensen if I’m going to attempt the horror that is online dating.

“My parents are immigrants,” I say. “They moved to California when I was five, Daniela was three, and Isla hadn’t been born yet.”

“You’re the oldest daughter?”

I nod.

He studies me with that steady, assessing gaze—like he’s seeing puzzle pieces click into place. “Makes sense,” he murmurs.

I’m sure it does.

Spanish was my first language. Growing up, I was the family translator for everything—appointments, paperwork, major decisions, even some pretty scary medical conversations. I helped my parents learn English, but that took them years. Until then, a lot of the household and communication responsibility fell on me. I was handling family affairs long before I was old enough to understand the weight of what I was carrying.

“What’s your family like?” I ask.

He sits back, exhales, and says flatly, “Well, my mom loved drugs.”

I choke on my drink. “Sorry. That’s not what I was expecting you to say.”

His mouth curves into a small, amused smile. “Not the best opener, I know, but unfortunately, it’s the truth. Doesn't bother me to share it.”

He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “She loved drugs and alcohol. And my dad loved her. She only stopped when she was pregnant with me, and after I was born, she went right back to them. She had to choose—me or the bottle. She chose the bottle.”