Eldest Daughter #2
I sometimes wonder what would happen if I made the Creative Cactus my full-time gig.
Yeah, I don’t get any stock options, and health insurance is something I’d have to figure out on my own.
But the income from my business has been stable so long as I’m consistently taking on projects.
I’ve been lucky; word-of-mouth recommendations mean that I typically have a healthy waiting list of clients.
But that might not always be the case. Everyone’s always told me that creative lines of work like mine are inherently unstable, and I guess I’ve internalized the message that it’s impossible to make a real living in a field like brand creation and management.
Besides, do I really want to work by myself for the foreseeable future? I make decent money but not nearly enough to hire help. I’d have to do everything myself—accounting, networking, social media. Plus my own marketing if the pipeline of potential clients runs dry.
What about my lifestyle if I chose that path? Could I even get approved to extend my apartment lease if I’m self-employed? The current lease is up January 1. My parents cosigned my current lease, and even though I pay the rent myself, I don’t want to have to depend on them at all going forward.
It goes without saying that I’d rather die than move back home. No offense to my family, whom I love dearly. But I flew the nest, and I have no plans to come back for…obvious reasons.
I’m proud of Creative Cactus. But I’m just not convinced I could turn it into the kind of stable, exciting, lucrative career I’ve always wanted.
I’m not convinced it could provide the kind of freedom I’m looking for. Freedom my mom doesn’t have.
I do want a family someday. But a husband, kids…
that stuff will come later, after I’ve figured out my career and saved up a nice little nest egg.
I’m only twenty-four, for crying out loud.
Like the majority of my business school classmates, I don’t plan on settling down until I’m well into my thirties.
There’s no rush to find “the one.” Although it would be nice to get laid every once in a while by someone who knows how it’s done.
Once the meatballs are cooked, the water starts to boil. I add a tablespoon of kosher salt to the pot, then pour in the pasta. I give that a stir while Mom sets the table.
Dad is still pouting, but he does join us when we all sit down to eat. Mom keeps her eyes on her plate while Dad pushes the food around on his, letting out an annoyed huff after he takes a bite of the offending meatballs.
They are freaking delicious, and I say so. My brothers agree, but my dad remains silent.
Less than ten minutes after we sat down to eat, Dad is getting up and putting his plate in the sink.
Then he heads back to the couch. My brothers are not far behind.
They do have the grace to thank Mom for cooking, even as they immediately start to moan and groan about how tired they are from the week.
Mom sighs. “Y’all head upstairs, then, and get some rest. I’ll clean up.”
I glance at Dad. He’s in the recliner now, popping out the footrest for his feet.
The anger in my chest swells. It feels like heartburn. On the eve of Mom’s birthday, he’s still not willing to help out. Still not willing to give her a much-needed break by taking over dish duty himself.
“Lainey,” Dad says, “I wanna hear more about this interview—why you didn’t like the people.”
There’s a reason—many reasons—he’s asking that question.
I inherited being more of an “indoor person” from him.
While my schoolmates visited family and friends on ranches across Texas when we were younger, I was more than happy to hang in my room and sketch on my tablet.
I’d read books, listen to angsty Ed Sheeran songs, and bedazzle random shit because I’m crafty and it was fun.
I thought I’d get along with people who worked in an office environment. Obviously Dad thought that too. Now I’m not so sure.
“Lainey can talk after she helps me clean up.” Mom rises, grabbing her plate. “Mind clearing the table? I’ll start loading the dishwasher.”
I love how it’s assumed that I’ll be the one to help.
That fact has always grated on me. But tonight, it bothers me more than usual.
Maybe because Mom’s clearly in a mood and is taking it out on me.
I understand where she’s coming from. It’s her birthday, for crying out loud, and no one seems to give a shit.
Still hurts, though, being her chosen punching bag. I didn’t used to hate coming home. Now I do.
I clear the table, put the leftovers in the fridge, and pour myself and Mom some more wine. Only when the sink is empty and the dishwasher is running do I go sit on the couch across from Dad.
Collapse is the more apt word for the way I flop onto the cushions with an exhausted sigh. Closing my eyes, I stretch out my legs.
“You still haven’t answered my question about the interview,” he says.
I keep my eyes closed. Yes, Dad, because I was cleaning up from dinner. The one I helped make.
“Well…” I open my eyes. “Long story short, I just don’t think I belong in private equity.”
Dad gives me a look. “I thought you were set on landing at a PE firm. I was just bragging about you to my coworkers. They were so impressed you got all those interviews.”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Like impressing your coworkers is what’s important.
“But really, what are you going to do, then?” Mom appears in the family room, a laundry basket on her hip. She sits in a chair beside the coffee table and sets the basket down on the floor. “You do know you need to get a job.”
Exactly what I knew she’d say.
I let out a mirthless chuckle. “Of course I know I need to get a job. We’ve talked about this. That’s always been the plan.”
“The reminder can’t hurt.” Mom snaps a white undershirt straight before beginning to fold it. “We did pay through the nose to send you to all that school.”