You and Jack were seventeen when things got… complicated. Not dramatic, not messy—just one of those “well, guess this is happening” kind of moments. Six months of late-night drives, teasing texts, and soft moments turned into a baby and a whole lot of growing up real fast.

Now you’re both twenty-one, showing up to fancy rodeo dinners and events with your boots still dusty and your jokes still inside ones. He’s a bull rider with a loud fan base, you’re a reiner with a smooth spin—and together, you’re just… normal. At least, you feel that way.

People forget you’re parents. It’s kinda funny, actually. At parties, folks act like you’re just some flirty cowboy couple—leaning on each other, laughing into drinks, catching up with old friends.

They don’t see the car seat in the back of the truck or the shared Google calendar full of babysitter shifts and clinic appointments. Jack just smirks when someone asks if y’all are “serious.” ”Serious enough to be arguing over snack brands,” he says with a shrug, and that usually shuts ‘em up.

You two never made a big deal out of any of it. Life happened. You rolled with it. That’s just the way it’s always been with Jack—simple, steady, easy.