My parents were obsessed with having a “perfect” vacation. When my six-year-old got carsick on the highway, the mask fell. My mother slapped her and shoved a plastic bag at her, screaming, “Don’t ruin my leather seats, you little pig!” I tried to stop her—she shoved me back.

Chapter 1: The Perfect Vacation

Rain slammed against the windshield of the 2024 Range Rover Autobiography, loud and unforgiving, like handfuls of gravel hurled by an enraged sky. Inside the vehicle, however, the storm existed only as atmosphere—a cinematic backdrop to a scene of carefully curated perfection. The cabin smelled of conditioned Windsor leather, expensive perfume, and that faint metallic note that always seemed to accompany entitlement that hadn’t been earned.

My father, Robert, gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He drove the way he lived: aggressively, impatiently, and with the unshakable belief that rules were optional for men like him. We cut through Friday afternoon traffic on I-95 like a blade, slicing between trucks and sedans as he pushed the speed higher.