Find Bailey Dunfield's writer profile here. Eight in the evening is when we began eating our dinner every night. Coincidentally that was the same age our family, decided that dinner together was worth the flexible eating schedule. At the age of twelve, I still vividly remember waiting patiently on my barstool at the island where we sat for dinner. My mother across the kitchen frantically trying to finish dinner while simultaneously washing the dishes and counters. I never understood why she tried so hard to have the perfect home. Down the long L-shaped island is where my younger sister, nine years old and full of attitude, would sit. Sometimes we got along, but most of the time we spent waiting at the kitchen table was used to bicker. She always complained, and got everything she wanted. Everything I had she wanted, like clockwork. It used to bother me when my parents gave into her endless demands, but one thing I will never forget, something she never got. At my barstool, I used to have the best view, and I never gave that up.Â