Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“I’m not sure why I have to be babysat,” I mutter as I re-enter the living area, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. My father looks up then, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. It’s his version of disapproval, though he rarely expresses it outright.
“It’s not babysitting,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind. “It’s exposure. You’re lucky to have these opportunities.”
I bite back a retort, sinking into the couch opposite him. He doesn’t understand—or maybe he does and chooses to ignore it. Traveling the globe, attending conferences, and witnessing breakthroughs firsthand might be thrilling to him, but to me, it often feels like gilded captivity.
“I’ve told you already,” my father says, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation as he leans back in the armchair. “This is a significant event, and there are people who don’t want me speaking at the Summit.”
The G20 Summit, an exclusive gathering of global leaders, innovators, and policymakers, is indeed a prestigious affair. Just thinking about it stirs an ache of longing in me. It’s a reminder of my strange limbo—I’m a researcher in all but name, contributing to my father’s groundbreaking projects without official recognition or compensation. To the world, I am invisible, a nameless cog in the machinery of his genius.
I slump back further into the plush leather couch, letting out an exaggerated sigh, and toss my legs onto the mahogany coffee table in front of me. The ornate table, polished to a mirror finish, reflects the restless energy in my posture. “Who?” I ask, my voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “Who are these people so desperate to stop your appearance?”
My father glances at me over the rim of his glasses, his expression both tired and resigned. “Some group who doesn’t want science interfering with food,” he replies, shrugging as if to downplay the gravity of the opposition.
I sit up straighter, my brow furrowing. “But don’t they realize you’re developing technologies that could feed millions? That this could solve world hunger?” My voice rises, carrying the passion I feel every time we talk about his work. I’ve seen the data, run the calculations, even helped refine the models. The potential impact is staggering—life-changing for so many.
He takes off his glasses with a practiced motion and begins meticulously cleaning the lenses with a soft cloth. The small, deliberate action feels like a metaphor for his approach to life—methodical, precise, and unwavering, even in the face of resistance. “They fear what they don’t understand,” he says after a moment, his tone almost wistful. “That’s why I need to present my data in a way that even a two-year-old can grasp. Simplify the science so it’s not intimidating.”
I cross my arms, leaning back into the couch with a huff. “Well, I think your speech is brilliant,” I say firmly, as though my approval carries the weight of the Nobel committee.
A rare smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, that familiar crooked half-smile I’ve come to associate with his rare moments of pride. “Thanks, peanut. You’ve always been my biggest supporter.”
I laugh softly, the sound breaking the tension. “Well, I’m smart too, remember? And I can take care of myself. I don’t need a babysitter.”
He gives me a pointed look, his smile fading into something more serious. “It’s not about babysitting, you know that.”
But the words hang between us, unspoken: It’s just the two of us. It always has been.
I flash him a grin. “Besides,” I add, “I’ll bet you anything your speech is so good even the people protesting you will want to take notes.”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head as he puts his glasses back on. “Maybe. But I’m not taking any chances.”
As he picks up his tablet and begins scrolling through his presentation notes again, I lean back on the couch, studying him. Despite the weariness in his features, there’s still a spark of determination in his eyes. He’s carried the weight of the world’s expectations for as long as I’ve known him, and yet, he never falters.
It’s inspiring. And infuriating.
While other young women my age chatter over coffee about weekend plans or the latest gossip, I’m deep in research papers, conferences, and lab work. At twenty-two, I boast a Master’s in Molecular Biology and am neck-deep in my PhD research. Few can match my academic achievements, and I take pride in that. Socially inept? Perhaps. I wouldn’t know. My understanding of normal human behavior is cobbled together from TikTok videos and predictable rom-coms. Relationships, small talk, or even casual friendships seem like foreign concepts to me. But in science, I excel. Corny as it sounds, my passion for it consumes me—it’s my purpose, my identity, and, occasionally, my escape.
“You can bring your jewelry and make some of your creations,” my father says absentmindedly, fiddling with the knot of his tie as he paces near the window of our suite. His gaze is distant, already halfway through his mental checklist for the day.