At eighteen, my father paid for my twin sister’s expensive university, apartment, laptop and car. He handed me $200 and said there would be no more because she was the better investment. I worked my way through college and built a life without him. Eight years later, his company desperately needed $40 million to survive. He entered the investment meeting, looked toward the person deciding his future—and dropped every folder in his hands.

Dad called six minutes after receiving the email. For one foolish moment, I believed he might finally respect what I could do.

“Did that professor put you up to this?” he asked.

“No. I found the risks myself.”

He laughed quietly. “You have completed one semester of introductory economics, and now you think you understand the company I spent twenty-five years building?”

I tried to explain the debt ratios, but he interrupted me. Brooke had recently announced that she wanted to major in communications before joining the company’s executive team, and Dad used her plans as another weapon.

“Your sister is learning how real businesses grow,” he said. “You are sitting in a state-school library inventing disasters because you resent her opportunities.”

He told me never to contact his employees or lenders, then ended the call. Two days later, a package arrived containing the printed report with every page torn in half.