My brother, James, was the firstborn golden child who followed our father into finance. My sister, Catherine, became the surgeon my mother always wanted to be before she married Dad. And then there was me—Abigail—the creative one who loved art and storytelling. The disappointment in my parents’ eyes when I chose to study design instead of business or medicine is something I can still see when I close my eyes at night.

“Art is a hobby, not a career,” my father would say, his voice dripping with condescension. “No one makes real money that way.”

My mother would add her trademark passive‑aggressive comment: “We just worry about your future, sweetheart. Not everyone can be special enough to succeed in something so unreliable.”

I moved out at eighteen, supporting myself through college with three jobs while my siblings had their apartments and tuition fully paid. I slept four hours a night, ate ramen for weeks straight, and never asked my parents for a penny—even when I had to visit the emergency room for exhaustion. Pride and determination became my only companions.