I stared at my laptop screen, the glowing words of acceptance from Harvard Law School mocking me. My dream, my escape, my hard-won victory against the suffocating expectations of the Wiltshire name. A shriek escaped me, loud enough to bring my mother, Susanna Wiltshire, sweeping into my room.

“What in the world is going on, Elena?” she cried, her perfectly coiffed eyebrow arching.

“I got accepted, mother! Harvard has accepted my application!” I beamed, turning the screen towards her, expecting joy, pride—anything but the usual cold disinterest. She merely raised her eyebrow higher, a familiar gesture that spoke volumes.

“Harvard, as in The States?” Her tone was laced with a disdain usually reserved for ill-fitting couture. I nodded, my grin faltering. This was it, then. The inevitable clash between my aspirations and their unwavering desire for me to remain a decorative socialite. My mother, the queen of appearances, had just shot a bazooka straight into my sky-high hopes.