The wound was not a single event but a climate of a thousand subtle distributions of pressure. I grew up understanding myself as the place where difficulty could safely land without causing a disruption.
When I chose a state university over a private one, my parents praised my practicality. When I worked through school to pay my bills, they admired my grit while funding Dominic’s prestigious law degree.
I moved into a small apartment in Baltimore and built a life that was entirely mine. I believed the inequality was just a matter of personality and that the lack of support was simply a part of my character building.
That belief ended on a Tuesday morning when I received a call from Winona Fletcher. She was a senior partner at a law firm that had handled our family’s estate planning for decades.
“Francesca, I would like to schedule a meeting to discuss some important financial matters related to your twenty-fifth birthday,” she said. I assumed it was something administrative or a routine insurance update.
When I arrived at her office, the mahogany walls and heavy drapes suggested a world of discretion and permanence. Winona was a silver haired woman who looked impossible to fluster.