The sound of rolling suitcases echoed through Terminal 3, a symphony of judgment that followed me everywhere I went.

“Move faster, Mia,” my father barked, his voice sharp enough to slice through the crowd. “You’re holding us up. Again.”

I bit my tongue and stepped aside as my stepsister, Laya, strutted past. Her designer heels clicked on the polished floor, each step a reminder of everything I supposedly wasn’t. She tossed her glossy blonde hair back and smirked at me with that practiced expression of mock pity she’d perfected over the past two years.

“Maybe she’s nervous,” she said, loud enough for nearby travelers to hear. “It’s probably her first time seeing a plane up close.”

My father chuckled, not even trying to hide his disdain. “She can’t afford economy, Laya. Don’t expect her to know how airports work.”

Laughter followed—their laughter, always their laughter. Heads turned. Heat burned my cheeks, but I didn’t say a word. I just adjusted the strap of my old backpack and stared at the giant glass windows, where planes gleamed under the morning sun like metal birds carrying people toward better lives.

They were flying first-class to New York for a family celebration I was technically invited to but never truly wanted at. A cousin’s wedding, the kind of event where appearances mattered more than actual relationships.

Laya lifted her boarding pass with a triumphant grin. “First-class boarding, Daddy. We’ll have champagne before takeoff.” She turned to me with exaggerated sympathy. “What are you having? Pretzels?”

My father’s new wife, Diana, laughed from behind her oversized sunglasses. She was only five years older than me, a fact that made family gatherings particularly awkward. “Don’t be mean, Laya. I’m sure Mia’s ticket is perfectly adequate for someone in her… position.”

“Don’t be bitter,” Laya added with a roll of her eyes. “Some of us just make better life choices.”

That one stung more than the others, and she knew it. Two years ago, I’d made a choice that my father considered the ultimate betrayal: I walked away from the family company after he married Diana and handed her daughter, Laya, everything I had built. The software division I’d created from scratch, the client relationships I’d cultivated, the innovations I’d spent sleepless nights developing—all of it given to Laya like an inheritance she’d done nothing to earn.

Now they stood there in the airport, all smiles and status symbols, while I was the outsider with a worn suitcase and a quiet face that gave nothing away.

“Do us a favor,” my father said, lowering his voice to what he probably thought was a considerate whisper but was loud enough for everyone around us to hear. “Try not to embarrass the family name this weekend. People talk.”

I looked him dead in the eye, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. “People always talk, Dad. It’s what they say later that matters.”

Before he could reply, the loudspeaker announced boarding for their flight. They gathered their expensive leather bags and headed for the gate, a perfect family portrait of success and superiority.

Laya turned back one last time, smirking over her shoulder. “See you in coach—if you can even afford the ticket.”

They laughed as they walked away, their voices carrying through the terminal like a performance designed for maximum humiliation.

I watched them disappear into the gate tunnel, my chest tight but my expression steady. Around me, travelers rushed past—families hugging goodbye, businessmen scrolling through phones, children crying about delayed flights. The normal chaos of an airport on a Friday morning.

Then, a shadow fell across the polished floor.

Polished black leather boots appeared in my peripheral vision. A tall man in a crisp navy uniform with gold pilot’s wings stopped directly in front of me, his posture impeccable, his voice calm but commanding.

“Miss Monroe?”

The name echoed through the terminal, cutting through the ambient noise. My father’s laughter, still faintly audible from the gate area, stopped abruptly.

“Yes?” I said, looking up at the pilot.

He straightened, his expression professional but warm. “Your jet is ready, ma’am. We’ve completed pre-flight checks and we’re cleared for departure whenever you’re ready.”

The Moment Everything Changed

The words sliced through the terminal noise like thunder. Mid-step, halfway through the gate tunnel, my father turned around. Laya froze beside him, her hand still clutching her first-class boarding pass. Diana’s mouth fell open behind her designer sunglasses. Their faces drained of color as a dozen nearby passengers stopped to stare at the scene unfolding.

I blinked once, slowly, then smiled at the pilot. “Perfect timing. I was getting tired of standing.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd as the pilot gestured toward the private terminal beyond the main security barrier, where I could see a sleek black car waiting near the private aviation section of the airport.

“Her… jet?” Laya’s voice came out as a strangled whisper that carried across the terminal.

The pilot gave a professional nod, addressing her question without a trace of condescension. “Yes, ma’am. Miss Monroe owns the aircraft. A Gulfstream G650, registered under Monrovia Systems.”

I met my father’s stunned gaze across the distance between us. Several seconds passed in complete silence, the kind of silence that screams louder than any words.

“You were right, Dad,” I said, my voice carrying clearly through the suddenly quiet terminal. “I can’t afford economy.” I paused, letting the words hang in the air before adding softly, “It’s too small for me now.”

Then I turned and walked away, calm and composed, my heart pounding with every victorious step. The glass doors of the private aviation lounge opened automatically, and sunlight spilled across the tarmac beyond. The wind whipped my hair as the hum of jet engines filled the air, a sound I’d grown intimately familiar with over the past two years but which my family knew nothing about.

For the first time in years, I didn’t feel small. I felt untouchable.

Behind me, I could hear my father’s voice rising in confused anger, Diana’s shocked questions, Laya’s protests that this had to be some kind of joke. But I didn’t look back. I walked through those doors into a world they’d never even imagined I could access.

The Flight

The door of the luxury jet closed behind me with a soft hiss, sealing out the chaos of the airport and everything it represented. The scent of polished leather and fresh coffee replaced the cheap perfume and cruel laughter I had just left behind.

“Welcome aboard, Miss Monroe,” said Captain Grant, his professional demeanor softening into a smile of quiet respect. “Weather looks perfect for our flight to New York. We should arrive about an hour before your father’s commercial flight lands.”

I sank into a cream-colored leather seat by the window as the engines rumbled to life beneath us. The city stretched below like a story I had already finished reading, each neighborhood a chapter of a life I’d left behind.

As the jet began to taxi toward the runway, my phone buzzed. Dad. I watched it ring once, twice, then answered.

“Mia,” his voice snapped through the speaker, “what kind of joke are you playing? Whose jet is that? Did you rent it for some pathetic show?”

“No joke,” I replied coolly, watching ground crew members give us clearance signals. “I just stopped living by your version of success.”

“This is ridiculous. I asked you to be practical,” he shot back, and I could hear the frustration that came from losing control of a narrative. “Instead, you ran off chasing impossible dreams like a child.”

“The ‘impossible dreams’ that built a company worth more than the one you’re still running, Dad,” I said, leaning back into the plush seat. “The one I designed before you replaced me with Laya and pretended I never existed.”

There was a stark silence on the line. In the background, I could hear Diana asking questions, Laya’s voice rising in disbelief. Then his voice dropped lower, that tone he used when he wanted to sound reasonable but was actually manipulating. “You could have stayed, Mia. You didn’t have to walk out like a drama queen. We could have worked something out.”

I stared out the window as we reached the runway, the memory of that night two years ago flashing vividly in my mind. The shouting in his office, the betrayal when he announced Laya as head of the software division, the moment he handed my project portfolio to her as if I had never existed, as if two years of my work meant nothing.

“You’re right,” I said softly, my voice steady despite the old wounds. “I didn’t have to walk out. I chose to. Best decision I ever made.”

The line went dead. He’d hung up, unable to handle a conversation where he wasn’t in complete control.

Captain Grant stepped into the main cabin, setting a leather folder on the table beside me. “Your itinerary, ma’am. The meeting with potential investors in Manhattan is scheduled for three o’clock. Your security team will escort you from the terminal. And I’ve been informed that the Global Tech Summit begins at seven this evening.”

“Thank you, Captain,” I said, closing the folder without looking at it. I’d memorized the schedule days ago.

He hesitated, his professional mask slipping slightly. “If I may say so, ma’am, it’s not every day someone takes back everything they lost so completely.”

I smiled faintly, looking out at the clouds we were about to climb into. “It’s not about taking it back, Captain. It’s about becoming the person they said you’d never be.”

The engines roared, building power, and the plane lifted—smooth, powerful, defiant. I watched the ground fall away, the city shrinking to toy-sized buildings and matchbox cars. Two years ago, I’d walked out of my father’s office with nothing but a laptop, a handful of industry contacts who believed in me more than my own family ever had, and a promise to myself that I would never again beg for a chance to prove my worth.

While Laya had spent those two years flaunting her new position on social media, posting carefully curated images of boardroom meetings she barely understood and company events she attended as decoration, I had spent the same time in the shadows. Fueled by cheap coffee and expensive determination, working eighteen-hour days, building something from absolutely nothing.

When investors laughed at my pitch, I refined it and tried again. When the bank refused my loan application, I sold my car and took public transportation to meetings. When my apartment got too expensive, I moved into a studio the size of a closet. When everyone said it was impossible, when friends gently suggested I give up and find a “real job,” when my father’s words echoed in my head late at night—You’ll never make it without me—I worked harder.

But I did make it. That “silly idea” he’d mocked in front of the entire board, that “naive fantasy” he’d dismissed with contempt, had become Monrovia Systems. What started as a single AI logistics application had grown into a comprehensive tech solution that Fortune 500 companies now considered essential. In two years, it had gone from a dream to a startup to a global player worth hundreds of millions.

Every insult, every laugh, every door slammed in my face had forged the woman sitting on this jet.

My assistant Sophie’s voice came through the intercom, pulling me from my thoughts. “Ma’am, the New York media has been calling. They heard you’ll be attending the Global Tech Summit this evening, and several outlets want interviews. How would you like me to respond?”

I glanced at my phone, where another message from my father had just appeared. Just one word this time: How?

I typed back: By being everything you thought I couldn’t be. Then I hit send.

“Tell them I’ll be available for brief interviews after my keynote speech,” I said to Sophie. “But nothing before. I want them focused on what I’m saying, not the story of where I came from.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

The jet sliced through the clouds, bathing the cabin in golden sunlight that felt symbolic, theatrical, perfect. For years, I had let them define me as the quiet one, the forgotten daughter, the girl who couldn’t handle the pressure of the family business. But now, they would have to learn my name all over again—on billboards, in headlines, in business journals, and in every corner of the tech world they thought belonged to men like my father.

Tonight, when I landed in Manhattan, the same family that had laughed at me in the terminal would be attending the same summit. They just didn’t know yet that Monrovia Systems wasn’t just attending—we were the primary sponsor. The keynote speaker. The company everyone would be talking about.

The real takeoff hadn’t just happened thirty thousand feet in the air. It had started the day I walked away from everything familiar and chose to bet on myself.

Manhattan

The jet’s wheels kissed the runway at Teterboro with barely a bump, a testament to Captain Grant’s skill. As we taxied toward the private aviation terminal, I could see the Manhattan skyline glittering in the distance like a challenge made of glass and steel.

Grant escorted me down the steps to a waiting black SUV, where Sophie was already waiting with her tablet and that efficient smile I’d come to rely on.

“Everything’s ready, ma’am,” she said as the tinted door shut behind me, sealing us in air-conditioned luxury. “The Global Tech Summit begins in two hours. You’ll open the event as the keynote sponsor and lead speaker. The tech press is already gathering.”

“Perfect,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline starting to build. “And the guest list?”

She smiled, that knowing expression that told me she understood exactly why I was asking. “Richard Monroe and his family confirmed their attendance this morning. They’re flying commercial, so they should arrive about thirty minutes after we get to the venue.”

Of course they did. My father never turned down an opportunity for publicity, especially at an event as prestigious as the Global Tech Summit. What he didn’t know—what absolutely no one in my family knew—was that Monrovia Systems wasn’t just sponsoring the summit this year. We owned the organizing company. We controlled the guest list, the speaking schedule, the media coverage, everything.

When we pulled up to the glass-covered venue in Midtown, camera lights flickered like a thousand fireflies. I stepped out into the flashes, wearing a sleek navy dress—not branded with designer labels, but elegant, professional, and entirely my own choice. Confidence was my only accessory.

A journalist from TechCrunch pushed to the front of the crowd. “Miss Monroe! Is it true that Monrovia Systems has acquired the Global Tech Network?”

I met her gaze and smiled faintly, giving nothing away but confirming everything. “Let’s just say I like to own the places I was once denied entry to.”

That sound bite would be on every tech blog within the hour.

Inside, chandeliers glittered above marble floors polished to a mirror shine. The air buzzed with conversations, champagne being poured, and egos being carefully maintained—the same world that had once laughed me out of its rooms and told me I didn’t have the experience, the connections, or the courage to succeed.

And then I saw them across the hall.

My father was deep in conversation with a group of investors I recognized from industry conferences, his posture confident, his new wife Diana polished as ever beside him in a designer gown that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. Laya hovered nearby in a showy red dress, her laughter echoing just as it had at the airport, drawing attention the way she always did.

They hadn’t seen me yet. They were too busy playing the role of the successful family, the tech industry dynasty, the Monroe legacy.

“Miss Monroe,” an announcer called from the stage, his voice amplified through the venue’s sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome tonight’s keynote speaker and our primary summit sponsor—the founder and CEO of Monrovia Systems, Miss Mia Monroe!”

The crowd erupted in applause. My father turned toward the stage, clapping politely out of habit until he froze mid-motion. The spotlight hit my face as I walked toward the stairs. Recognition slammed into his expression like a physical force. Laya’s hand, holding a champagne flute, dropped to her side. Diana grabbed my father’s arm as if she needed physical support.

“Mia?” Laya whispered, the sound lost in the thunderous applause filling the ballroom.

I smiled calmly, my heels silent against the carpeted steps as I climbed to the stage and approached the microphone. The applause gradually faded to expectant silence.

“Good evening, everyone,” I began, my voice steady and clear. “Two years ago, I was told I’d never belong in a room like this. Tonight, my company sponsors it.”

A ripple of impressed laughter moved through the audience, but I wasn’t playing for laughs. This was truth, raw and undeniable.

I looked directly at my father as I continued, my voice unwavering. “I built Monrovia Systems from a single laptop in a coffee shop in San Diego. No inheritance, no family connections, no shortcuts—just determination and the memory of being told I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, or strong enough to succeed on my own.”

Laya’s face twisted in disbelief. Diana had gone pale. My father’s expression was unreadable, frozen somewhere between shock and something that might have been pride if I cared to interpret it generously.

“People often ask what motivates success,” I went on, my gaze sweeping the room before landing back on my family. “For me, it was simple. Humiliation is a louder teacher than privilege. Being underestimated is the best motivation in the world.”

The applause that rose this time was genuine, enthusiastic, from hundreds of people who’d felt dismissed and had fought their way to success anyway. My father’s hands stayed frozen mid-clap, unable to process what was happening.

I went on to discuss Monrovia’s vision for the future, our latest innovations, the partnerships we were announcing. I talked about artificial intelligence, logistics optimization, sustainable business practices. But underneath every word was the unspoken message to my family: You were wrong about me. Completely, utterly, devastatingly wrong.

When I finished thirty minutes later, the standing ovation lasted for over a minute. As I descended from the stage, business partners lined up to shake my hand, journalists called out for interviews, and venture capitalists asked about investment opportunities.

And my father stood in the middle of it all, watching the daughter he’d dismissed become the center of attention in his world.

The Confrontation

After the speech, as the crowd mingled and the orchestra began to play, he approached me slowly, cautiously, as though crossing dangerous ground that might explode if he stepped wrong.

“Mia,” he said, his voice strained. “I didn’t know. I had no idea you’d accomplished all this.”

I took a sip of water, buying myself a moment before responding. “You didn’t know because you never asked, Dad. You were too busy celebrating my replacement to notice what I was building.”

Laya stepped forward, forcing a shaky laugh that sounded desperate even to her. “Come on, Mia. Don’t act like some kind of hero. You got lucky with investors, that’s all. Right place, right time.”

I turned to her, still smiling faintly, my voice quiet but cutting. “Luck doesn’t sustain a business for two years, Laya. Luck doesn’t convince Fortune 500 companies to trust your platform. And investors don’t buy companies—they buy belief, vision, and competence. Things you’ve never demonstrated in anyone but yourself.”

Her face hardened, the mask of confidence cracking. “You think this makes you better than us?”

“No,” I said simply. “It just makes me free.”

Behind me, Sophie gestured that media interviews were waiting. But I held up a hand, not quite finished with this conversation.

I looked back at my father, my voice dropping to something softer, more personal. “You know what hurt the most? It wasn’t losing my position at the company. It wasn’t watching Laya take credit for my work. It was realizing that my own family only valued me when I was convenient, when I fit into the story you wanted to tell about yourselves.”

He swallowed hard, looking older than I’d ever seen him. “You’re right. I failed you, Mia. I see that now.”

For a fleeting moment, I almost believed his sincerity. Almost. But apologies delivered in public, in front of hundreds of witnesses, aren’t really about the person you’ve hurt. They’re about managing your own image.

“I forgive you,” I said quietly, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Not because you deserve it, but because I do. I’ve carried that weight long enough, and I’m done letting it slow me down.”

He blinked, stunned into silence. Diana shifted uncomfortably beside him. Laya looked between us, confused by the turn this conversation had taken.

I stepped back slightly, glancing up at the glowing banner above the stage: Monrovia Systems: Building the Future, Together.

“You were right about one thing, Dad,” I said, a soft smile playing on my lips. “I couldn’t afford economy. But not because I was too poor—because I was never meant to fly that low.”

The Aftermath

And with that, I turned and walked back toward the waiting journalists and photographers. The spotlight found me again, cameras rolled, and questions flew about Monrovia’s next innovations, our expansion plans, our vision for the industry.

I talked about resilience and the power of rebuilding yourself when the world tells you you’re broken. I discussed how being underestimated was actually the best training ground for success, because it taught you to prove yourself through results rather than rhetoric. I spoke about the importance of building companies that valued substance over style, innovation over inheritance.

But as I spoke, I could see my father and Laya near the exit, watching in silence as the crowd hung on my every word. Diana was talking urgently to my father, probably suggesting they leave before this became even more uncomfortable. He shook his head, unable to tear himself away from watching the daughter he’d dismissed command a room he’d spent decades trying to impress.

When the interviews finally ended an hour later, I stepped off to the side where Sophie was waiting with my coat.

“You did it,” she said quietly, a genuine smile on her face. “You absolutely crushed it.”

I looked back one last time toward the doors where my family had been standing. They were gone now, probably already in a car heading to their hotel, processing what had just happened.

“No,” I said, taking the coat from Sophie. “I just stopped letting them define what ‘it’ was supposed to be.”

Outside, the city shimmered with a million lights, each one a story of someone chasing a dream or running from a nightmare. My jet waited at Teterboro, its engines already being prepped for the return flight.

As we drove through Manhattan’s streets, Sophie reviewed tomorrow’s schedule on her tablet. “You have breakfast meetings with three potential investors, a conference call with the development team in Seoul, and a lunch interview with Forbes. Then we fly to San Francisco for the board meeting on Monday.”

I nodded, only half listening. My phone buzzed with a text from Captain Grant: Ready whenever you are, ma’am. Clear skies all the way home.

Home. The word felt different now than it had this morning. San Diego was where I lived, where Monrovia’s headquarters occupied three floors of a building I’d never imagined I could afford. But home wasn’t really a place anymore—it was the freedom to define success on my own terms.

At the private terminal, as we walked toward the jet, Sophie paused. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think they’ll ever really understand what they did? What they lost?”

I considered the question as we climbed the steps into the aircraft. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I didn’t do this to teach them a lesson or to get revenge. I did it because I needed to prove something to myself—that I was exactly as capable as I’d always believed, and that their opinion of me said more about them than it ever did about me.”

Captain Grant greeted us at the door. “Welcome back, ma’am. Ready to head home?”

“More than ready, Captain.”

As we settled into our seats and the engines began their familiar rumble, I pulled out my phone one last time. There was a text from my father, sent just ten minutes ago:

I’m proud of you, Mia. I should have said that two years ago. I should have said it every day of your life. I’m sorry I didn’t.

I stared at the message for a long moment. Part of me wanted to respond with anger, to list every hurt and humiliation, to make him feel a fraction of what I’d felt. But that version of me—the one who needed his validation, who measured her worth by his approval—didn’t exist anymore.

I typed back: Thank you. That means something, even if it’s late. But I don’t need you to be proud of me anymore. I’m proud of myself, and that’s enough.

Then I put the phone away and looked out the window as we taxied toward the runway.

Sophie had fallen asleep in the seat across from me, exhausted from days of preparation for the summit. Captain Grant’s voice came over the intercom: “We’re cleared for takeoff, Miss Monroe. Should have you home in about five hours.”

“Thank you, Captain,” I said softly.

As the plane lifted off, climbing into the night sky above Manhattan, I thought about that morning at the airport—the laughter, the cruelty, the casual dismissal of everything I was. How small they’d tried to make me feel, how invisible they’d wanted me to be.

Now, miles above them, literally and figuratively, I finally understood something important: some farewells aren’t said with words. They’re written in altitude, in achievement, in the quiet satisfaction of becoming exactly who you were meant to be despite everyone who said it was impossible.

The city lights fell away beneath us, and I smiled. Not in triumph, not in revenge, but in peace. I’d spent two years building something extraordinary, not because I wanted to prove them wrong, but because I needed to prove myself right.

And that made all the difference.

Six Months Later

The morning sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows in my San Diego office, casting long shadows across the room. I was reviewing quarterly projections when Sophie knocked on the door.

“You have a visitor,” she said, her expression carefully neutral in that way that meant I wouldn’t like who it was.

“Who?”

“Your father. He’s been in the lobby for twenty minutes. Says he won’t leave until you see him.”

I set down my coffee, considering. Six months had passed since the summit. In that time, Monrovia had expanded into three new markets, doubled our workforce, and secured partnerships that made us indispensable to industries we’d only dreamed of accessing. Meanwhile, my father’s company had lost several major clients—companies that had quietly switched to Monrovia’s platform.

“Send him up,” I said finally.

When he entered, he looked smaller somehow. Age had caught up with him, or maybe it was just that I’d stopped seeing him as larger than life.

“Mia,” he said, standing awkwardly in front of my desk. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You said you wouldn’t leave until I did. That seemed like a threat.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He sat down when I gestured to the chair. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. At the summit. About how we only valued you when you were convenient.”

“And?”

“You were right. I treated you like an asset instead of a daughter. I dismissed your ideas because I was threatened by how good they were. And when you left, I told myself you’d come crawling back within a month, that you couldn’t survive without the family name.” He paused. “I was wrong about everything.”

I studied him for a moment. “Why are you here, Dad? What do you want?”

“Nothing,” he said, and I almost believed him. “I don’t want your forgiveness or a place in your company. I just wanted you to know that I see it now. What I lost. Who you became. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to watch it happen.”

For the first time since I’d walked out of his office two years ago, I felt something shift in my chest. Not forgiveness exactly, but maybe the beginning of letting go.

“I appreciate that,” I said quietly. “It doesn’t change the past, but it’s something.”

He nodded, standing to leave. At the door, he paused. “For what it’s worth, your mother would have been incredibly proud of you. She always said you had more of her in you than me. I’m glad she was right.”

After he left, I sat alone in my office for a long time, watching the San Diego harbor through my windows. My mother had died when I was twelve, long before any of this had happened. I liked to think he was right, that she would have been proud.

But whether she would have been or not, whether he was proud or not, whether anyone approved or not—it didn’t matter anymore. I’d built something remarkable not for their approval, but for mine.

And that, finally, was enough.

The intercom buzzed. “Ma’am, your ten o’clock is here. The partnership meeting with the automotive manufacturers?”

I smiled, pulling my focus back to the present. “Send them in.”

As the delegation entered my office, ready to discuss integrating Monrovia’s AI systems into their vehicles, I realized something profound: the girl who’d stood in that airport terminal, absorbing their mockery and cruelty, was gone. In her place was a woman who’d learned that the best revenge isn’t revenge at all—it’s becoming so successful that their opinions become irrelevant.

Some people spend their whole lives seeking approval from those who belittled them. I’d found something better: I’d stopped needing it. And in that liberation, I’d found everything I’d been looking for.

The meeting began, and I was fully present, entirely focused, completely free. The weight I’d carried for so long—the need to prove myself to a family that would never truly see me—had finally lifted.

I didn’t need to prove anything anymore. The work spoke for itself. The success was undeniable. And the woman I’d become needed no one’s permission to exist.

Outside my window, planes continued to take off from San Diego International, carrying people toward their destinations. Some flew economy, some flew first class, and some—like me—had learned to fly entirely on their own terms.

And that altitude, I’d discovered, was the sweetest kind of freedom there was.