My journey to a magical world came in the form of three envelops in different colors. A day after I was crowned homecoming queen, blurry eyed, mascara still on because I was too tired to wipe it clean with a makeup remover, my doting mother of eighteen years sent the house help to fetch me. "Your mother wishes to see you," she said, opening the curtains. One should never keep a Roth waiting, my mom even so, rousing me out of bed. She was in her red silk robe, sipping her tea when I came to the parlor, concentrated on the stock market report on her Smartphone. Let's get the character descriptions out of the way early in the story. I was taller than most girls, shorter than some. My nose was neither large nor awkward on my face, just right. My hair color was dependent on the season. Summer it was lighter. The opposite on winter. As for my eyes, they were a pleasant grey. Not charcoal grey, but a lighter Marengo. My parents looked a lot like me. In fact, everyone in our family sort of looked like me, except I'm softer on the eyes. Our similar appearances had caused countless of articles to be published both online and in printed magazines about how we married our cousins and relatives to preserve the family money. It could have been true in the previous generations, but goddamn it if I were to marry my brother. That practice had been abolished in the past years. And if you were to ask about modesty, it had been absent since Mr. Roth, my banker father, told me that it would get me nowhere in life. "We're a family of go-getters," he said in the autumn of 2005, on my 7th birthday. "Modesty didn't make your grandfather's father rich, nor had it gotten me to where I am. One day you and your brother will get all our assets and properties. I want you to understand that dwelling with modesty will not be favorable for your life." Needless to say, my modesty went out the window at that age, though my brother was able to retain a lot of his. Where were we in the story? Ah, I was telling you about how I went downstairs to talk to my mother who had summoned me from restful sleep. She placed her phone on the sofa when she heard me come in. Money was gold, but Roth's were priceless, as they said. We made it a point to let go of everything when talking to each other. "Congratulations on your homecoming queen award," she said. "I told you they'll love your gown. It took Donatella three months to complete. How did Bjorn fare?" "I broke up with him," I said. "It was good while it lasted." Bjorn was my Viking of a boyfriend. He was tall, muscular, had a nice smile that got him most girls, and we were over. Mom frowned before settling for a poker face. Between the three other boys I brought home for formal introductions, she'd liked Bjorn the most, mostly because he was a people pleaser. "It wouldn't have worked out with us. We're off to college soon," I supplied. It wasn't a secret that more than 50% of high school relationships failed in college because of the long distance and different culture. I was being realistic. I was a Roth. Mother seemed to realize that too as she nodded to herself and took envelops, three of them, from the glass table. "These arrived yesterday afternoon when you were getting ready for the party," she said. "I didn't have the heart to take you away from the joy of womanly preparations, so I hid them from sight." I wouldn't have fussed over those envelops even if I saw them yesterday, I wanted to say. Instead I waited for her to reach out to me on the other side of the table, briefly noticing her perfectly applied nail polish before I accepted the papers. "Read them," she urged. I have only but to glance at the insignia's on the upper right corner of the envelops to know that each of them came from the universities I applied to for higher education. Tearing through the paper, I read loudly, "Dear Miss Roth, the Department of Sociology has strongly recommended you after reviewing your application. We are happy to offer you an admission to the class of the succeeding school year." I thumbed through the next letters and read the same results. "That's good news." She sounded pleased. "I'll call your father." Daddy had been out of the house before the first rays of sunshine. He was that dedicated to work and expected the same of his children. Mom spoke to him in low tones over the phone while I zoned out and thought of the universities. Most of the interviewers were wearing suits and had that scholarly aura about them that said, 'I am a professor or a PhD in something. Respect me.' Any other student would be shriveled on the chair, mumbling their answers. Count me out. I was a Roth. We loved the challenge. Instead of telling them how I could contribute to the society and mankind, I was bold enough to ask what they could do for me. My brother who'd been studying in one of those school's laughed when I told him the story. "You're an idiot," he said with a shake of his head. Mom was not thrilled with my overconfidence, saying it could have cost me the admission. Like my brother, she had a sliver of modesty. Daddy, in the meantime, was proud. "You're a true Roth," he said. "Mayer would dance in his grave." Don't ask who Mayer was. Daddy always brought him up. When the conversation between my parents was finished, mom turned to me, bearing the question that each of them wanted to know. "What college are you going to?"