me that we still need to do Clara’s. I know she probably doesn’t feel like it, but it’s tradition, so when I hear her up and showering, I pull out the craft supplies and set them on the table. I make a charcuterie board and set it on the table next to her birthday board because I doubt she’ll feel like eating much, but she needs to eat something.
When she finally walks out of her room, I’m at the table on my laptop. She stares at her birthday board. I close my laptop, and surprisingly, she walks to the table and takes a seat without a fuss. She pops a grape into her mouth. We make eye contact, but neither of us speaks. She grabs a blue marker, and I grab a purple one.
She stares at her board—at all the things we’ve put on it over the years. I like it because her handwriting has evolved throughout the years. Her first goal was written in green crayon, spelled wrong. “Americun Gurl dol.” It was a want rather than a goal, but she was young. She eventually learned the difference over time.
Clara begins to write something. It’s not just one thing. It’s several things. When she’s finished, I lean forward and read the list.
I want my mother to see my boyfriend for who he really is.
I want my mother to be honest with me, and I want to be honest with her.
I want to be an actress, and I want my mother to support that dream.
Clara puts the lid back on her marker, pops another grape in her mouth, and walks into the kitchen to get a drink.
Her goals make me sigh. I can tackle the first one. I can pretend to tackle the second one. But the third one is tough for me. Maybe I’m too realistic. Too practical.
I follow her into the kitchen, and she’s pouring herself a glass of ice water. She pops two aspirin and swallows. “I know you want me to major in something more practical, but at least I’m not running off to Los Angeles without getting a degree first,” she says. “And I need to start looking at schools soon. I need to know what we can afford now that Dad is gone.”
“What if we compromise? What if you get a degree in something more realistic, like psychology or accounting, and then after you graduate, you can move to Los Angeles and audition for roles while holding a real job.”
“Acting is a real job,” she says. She walks back to the table and takes a seat, selecting a piece of cheese to eat. She talks while she chews. “The way I see it, my life is going to go one of three ways.”
“Which are?”
She holds up a finger. “I get a BFA in acting from the University of Texas. I try to become an actress. I succeed.” She holds up another finger. “Or, I get a BFA in acting from the University of Texas. I try to become an actress. I fail. But at least I followed my dreams and can figure out where to go from there.” She holds up a third finger. “Or. I follow your dreams, major in something I am absolutely not interested in, and spend the rest of my life blaming you for not encouraging me to follow my dreams.”
She drops her hand and leans back in her chair. I stare at her a moment, soaking in everything she just said. I realize as I’m looking at her that something happened. I don’t know when or if it was gradual or overnight, but something has changed in her significantly.
Or maybe something has changed in me.
But she’s right. The dreams I have for her life aren’t nearly as important as the dreams she has for herself. I grab my marker and pull her birthday board toward me. I write, “My dreams for Clara < Clara’s dreams for herself.”
Clara reads it, and it makes her smile. She takes another bite of cheese and starts to get up from the table, but I don’t want to be done yet. I feel like I may not get another opportunity to talk like this with her for a while.
“Clara, wait. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
She doesn’t take her seat. She grips the back of the chair—an indication she doesn’t want this conversation to last long.
“Last night, you said something to me, and I want to know what you meant. It