The night my parents told me, “It’s too risky,” I was standing in their kitchen in Austin, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of iced tea, staring at the tiny magnet shaped like the American flag on the fridge. The TV in the living room hummed with a late-night baseball game. Cicadas screamed outside the screen door.
My pitch deck was open on my laptop on the counter, my prototype on standby, the cursor blinking like it was holding its breath with me.
All I needed was $70,000. Not a miracle.
Not a lottery ticket. Just a bridge between the product I’d already built and the companies who were ready to sign.
My dad lowered his newspaper without really looking at my slides.
“Ayla, it’s too risky,” he said, like it was a fact of nature, not an opinion. My mom nodded along, drying a plate with one of her star-spangled dish towels she kept out year-round. “You already have a stable job,” she added.
“Don’t gamble your life on… an app.”
An app.
The word lodged in my throat like a stone. I stood there, heart pounding, the glow from the laptop throwing pale light over the kitchen tiles I’d grown up walking barefoot on.
For a second I truly believed I could say something that would shift everything, that if I just explained the contracts, the roadmap, the demand, they would look at me the way they’d always looked at my younger sister, Rosie. But they didn’t ask a single question.
They didn’t touch the printouts I’d spent all night preparing.
They just made their decision and went back to their evening as if nothing world-changing had just been dismissed in under five minutes. Something inside me cracked—but it didn’t shatter all the way. Not yet.
Because back then, I still believed that if I just worked harder, one day they would finally choose me.
I’m Ayla. For as long as I can remember, I learned how to shrink myself inside my own home.
From the outside, our red brick house in Austin looked like the cover of some all-American postcard—flag magnet on the fridge, Fourth of July bunting reused every summer, neighbors waving from their driveways. Inside, everything revolved around one person.
Rosie.
I was the quiet, disciplined kid, the one who brought home straight A’s like it was my job. I cooked my own dinners, did my own laundry, scheduled my own dentist appointments once I was old enough to fake a signature. Rosie was the show.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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