My parents only paid for her studies because they said she had potential, unlike me, and four years later, at our graduation ceremony…

Four years earlier, everything had changed on a Tuesday in April.

The acceptance letters were spread out on the coffee table. My father sank into his leather armchair, coughed slightly, then spoke in an accountant’s tone.

“Victoria has potential.”

Silence.

Then his gaze fell upon me — or rather, passed through my silhouette.

“You’re intelligent, Francis… but there’s no return on investment with you.”

It was said calmly. Neatly. Like a budgetary decision.

I didn’t cry that night. Not even when I thought about the Honda Civic I’d given my sister when she was sixteen, with its big red bow on the hood. Not even when I looked at the cracked laptop I’d been given—the battery died after forty minutes.

At 2 a.m., sitting on the floor with a bowl of instant noodles, I started looking for scholarships as if my life depended on it.

Because that was the case.

I wasn’t looking for applause.

I was looking for a way out.

My first year was built on waking up at 4:15 am.

The “Morning Grind” opened at 5 a.m. The smell of burnt coffee clung to my hair. I was serving cappuccinos to students who were talking about ski vacations and internships already secured by their parents.

I went back to class with my hands still warm from the cups.

I wrote everything down.

I worked on everything.

I counted every dollar.

The rest is on the next page