My father’s good humor drains away and leaves behind a baffled expression. “You...want to learn to cook?”

My mouth open, but before I utter a sound, my father burst into laughter. My stomach sinks through the floor. It’s not his usual heartwarming chuckle. No, the noise he makes is the same he made when my older sister told him she planned to move to California to pursue acting.

My father’s laughing fit ceases, and he clutches his chest. “Good one, Princess. But be careful. My poor heart can’t handle many more jokes like that.”

“It’s not a joke. I really want to go to culinary school. To get a pastry degree.”

A wall slides over my father’s features, make it impossible for me to gauge his thoughts. “You want to be a pastry chef?”

“Well, no. I want to open my own bakery.” I place the portfolio on the computer desk and open it. I point at the top page, which breaks down the expense of my changing career paths. “I have it all worked out. If I knew how to bake, I could just skip school.” Shame fills me. “But I can’t.”

Not an entirely accurate statement. I can make simple things, like sugar cookies and one-note brownies, but I didn’t learn how until this past October. Up until then, I’ve been content with a private cook providing my meals.

When I discovered my passion for baking, I realized I should’ve taken Margrett Snow’s, the cook who’s been with my family for years, multiple teaching offers she made in my youth. But neither of my parents pressed the need for the valuable skill. What did it matter? Anything they can’t do for themselves they can hire someone to do for them.

My father smirks. “A bakery?” He shakes his head. “Do you know how absurd you sound?”

“It may seem a bit nutty, but I honestly think I can succeed.” I gesture to the portfolio again. “It’s all in here. Just look. Please.”

“Who put this stupid idea in your head?” His eyes flick to the study’s open door.

“No one! And it’s not stupid.”

My father snorts. “Throwing away a promising career as a cardiologist to make doughnuts for a living is what a child would suggest doing.”

My throat burns and my eyes sting, but I refuse to cry. I won’t act like the kid he just accused me of being. I must remain firm, to not give him an inch. If I stick to my guns, my father’s initial shock will diminish, and my maturity will win him over.

“Dad, I’m only asking you to examine my research right now.”

“No. I’m not going to entertain this a second longer. You’re not going culinary school. You’re going to stay at Harvard, graduate, and follow our plan—the sensible plan.”

Anger gripes me, and before I consider the consequences, I say, “Your plan. I don’t want to be a cardiologist. I never have.”

The fact has always been in the back of my mind, but my need to please my father, to hold my place as his favorite daughter, has kept it at bay. But as I baked more and more, I evaluated my life, and the following conclusion left me queasy for weeks: for as long as I can remember, I have let my father steer all my major life decisions. Somehow, I grew complacent to my father treating me like an extension of himself.

Now, at twenty-four, I can’t march forward like my father wants me to anymore. I need to step outside of his shadow, to show the world I’m more than my father’s daughter. Baking promises the freedom I crave.

My revelation drains the glow from my father’s face. “So, you’ve wasted the past six years of your life, my money, and the time of many people? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I just want to chase a dream. Why is that such a bad thing?”

“Your sister thought the same thing, and now look at what she’s become.”

I jerk as if my father struck me. “I am not Nicole. I won’t end up like her.”

My father waves away my statement, and his gaze hardens. “If you’re truly set on this, I want you out of the house. I won’t support you destroying your life.”

“But—But where will I go?”

“Why not join your sister?”

My father’s cruel tone shakes my core. The look he pegs me with is no better. I’ve fallen from grace and now exist alongside the dregs of society. From experience with Nicole, I know nothing will change his mind.

Yet, still, I try.

I pick up my portfolio and close the distance between me and my father. I shove the papers at him. I forget about remaining an unmovable force and bawl. “Look! Please, look. It’s all in here. Please, Daddy. Please.”

My father turns from me and focuses on the window. I cry louder. When he continues to ignore me, I scream at him. For my efforts, I only get a sore throat.

My hysterical pleading lasts for a solid ten minutes. Then all my fight abandons me. I drop the portfolio at my father’s feet and flee. Tears stream down my face as I thunder upstairs to my bedroom. I intend to fling myself on my bed but stop short.

In my absence, the comforter set has been removed. I gaze around my room and spot that my drawers are open and emptied. Many of the clothes from my closet have disappeared. My crying ceases in surprise, and fury mingles with my sadness.

This must be my mother’s work. How could she do this? Though we don’t share many traits or interests, and I made it clear years ago which parent I prefer, my mother has always treated me the same Nicole. Has it all been an act? Can this be my mother’s form of revenge? Or is this my mother’s attempt to please her husband?

Regardless, the sight of my partially cleared-out room pushes me to my limit. I drop to my knees in the middle of my bedroom and bury my face in my hands. Violent sobs shake me, and a hollow, eerie moan claws from my throat.

“Oh, darling!”

My mother’s voice startles me, but I don’t drop my hands. Instead, I curl into a tighter ball. My bawling now resembles a banshee’s.

My mother’s thin, strong arms wrap around me. Though I resist, my mother has little trouble pulling me into her lap. She rocks me and murmurs reassurances.

Her soft words once more spark my rage. I draw my head from my hands and shove at my mother until she lets me go. “You bitch!”

“I—”

“Couldn’t wait to get rid of me, could you?” I stand and scramble to the opposite side of the room. “What did you do with all my stuff?”

My mother slowly rises to her feet, and I refuse to acknowledge the grimace that accompanies the action. “I packed what I could into your luggage and put it in your car.”

“So, that’s it then? Good riddance?”

My mother shakes her head; sends her blond corkscrew curls flying. “I don’t want you to go, but we both know your father. It’s...it’s best if you go away and let him calm down.”

My shoulders droop. “Where do I go?”

I can’t join Nicole in California. For one, I don’t know where my sister lives. Two, even if I did, I refuse to involve myself in the risky lifestyle Nicole has pursued instead of acting.

I made plenty of friends at college, but none can take me in. They either still live with their parents or they live on their own and struggle to get by. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could pull money from my trust fund as I did all throughout college, but I know my father will cut me off—if he hasn’t already. Also, I’m aware of the job market and the difficulty I’ll have at obtaining anything substantial.

My mother removes a pile of folded papers and a stack of money from the back pocket of her jeans. She holds them out to me. “Here are the directions and enough cash to get you to Derbinwood, Pennsylvania. I contacted your great aunt, Veronica. She’s recently been diagnosed with cancer, and, since her husband died last year, she could use the company and help around the house.”

I frown. “Aunt Veronica—Isn’t she a horrible person?”

“No, she’s not. She’s...an acquired taste, but perfectly fine. She and your father just don’t get along well.”

I almost laugh at the understatement. My father and his aunt haven’t spoken or seen each other in nineteen years. Before their fallout, I was only around Aunt Veronica twice, and even as a small child I could tell the pair could barely tolerate one another.

The idea of living with a woman I hardly know in a place I’ve never visited unsettles me, but what choice do I have? I won’t make it long on the streets, and I refuse to beg for forgiveness. I’ve done nothing wrong. My father overreacted—he needs to apologize to me.

But he won’t. He hasn’t to Nicole, and, by his choice, he hasn’t seen his oldest daughter since she walked out of the house eight years ago. My father only mentions her when he wants an example of poor decisions.

I meet my mother’s gentle gaze. “For how long?”

I hope my mother will give me a sappy, optimistic answer, to lessen the blow of this horrible ordeal, but my mother says, “I don’t know, darling. Prepare for...awhile.”

More tears pool in my eyes as I grab the money and directions from my mother. I don’t bother to look at them; can’t bear to fully face reality yet. My mother pulls me into a hug, and, for the first time in two weeks, I don’t resist.

“I love you,” my mother whispers and pats my shoulder-length, honey blond hair. “Your father does, too. He’ll come around. He must. You’re his fav—He loves you.”

Though I want to believe otherwise, I know being my father’s favorite won’t matter. In fact, it probably makes him that much more furious. If he can go nineteen years without talking to someone he’s never liked to begin with, what will stop my father from ignoring me until he dies?