I look at her and understand, with a clarity that surprises me, that in her mind influence only counts when it’s public. When it’s titled and comes with a vote.
What I’m doing doesn’t photograph at all. And that’s the problem.
“Mom.”
Cecilia shifts in the hallway. I hear it—the faint scrape of shoe against the commercial linoleum floors. No one else seems to notice her presence.
I meet my father’s eyes.
“I don’t want the job.”
My mother laughs lightly, like I’ve made a charming safe-for-work joke. “Of course you do, Princess.”
“I do not.”
“You always want to win,” she retorts.
The air tightens.
I stand slowly.
“This is not about winning,” I say, and I don’t raise my voice. “It’s about making sure someone like Rodrigo—and others we’ll probably never even hear about—don’t have to be exceptions just to survive.”
My father studies, weighing whether I’m serious.
“And you believe you can do that from a place like this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He considers that.
“And the coach?” my mother asks. “She’s involved?”
That’s it. The real curiosity.
I don’t look towards the doorway.
“She’s his coach,” I say.
“And?” my mother presses.
I hold her gaze. “And that’s the only role that matters here, Vivienne.”
Another silence. This one much, much heavier. Nina has her arms crossed on her chest and is looking at me, eyes slightly wide at the use of my mother’s name.
My father’s gaze flicks to the files again. “You’re investing emotionally.”
“I’m investing responsibly.”
“In a foreign federation.”
“He’s an athlete, Dad. And practices the sport you love.”
He steps closer. “Your legacy?—”
“My legacy,” I interrupt quietly, “is not a brand extension.”
The room stills.
