At the airport, my father scoffed, She probably cannot even afford a basic economy seat. My stepsister doubled over laughing as they waved their first-class tickets in my face. I said nothing, made no excuses—I just stood there, quiet and used to their insults. Then a uniformed airport staff member approached and said, Ms. Monroe, your private jet is ready for boarding. In an instant, the entire terminal fell silent.
Avery Sullivan hurried through the crowded terminal of LAX, clutching her worn backpack and scanning the departure board. She was…