I lied to my mother about staying late at the school library for a final project, hopped on a long-distance bus to Burlington, and eventually walked into a small cottage filled with the scent of pine and old sketches. Josephine handed me a weathered iron box that my father had trusted her with years ago when I was just a toddler.
Inside was a substantial trust fund he had quietly built over a decade and a letter that became my absolute North Star during the hardest years of my life. “Do not ever let her convince you that you are not a priority, Elara, and use this money to build the beautiful world you always see in your drawings,” the letter read.
I took that money and moved to Philadelphia, renting a drafty, tiny studio apartment while working double shifts at a neighborhood diner to protect my father’s gift. I studied until my eyes burned under cheap lamplight, interned for pennies at a high-end firm, and slowly began to make a respected name for myself in the world of urban design.