Young Writers Society

Chapter 1: Balancing On a Tightrope 

‘To thine own self be true,’ they say, but for me, that was a battle against the weight of my last name. As the streets of Elysian Shores bustled with ambition, I stood at my dorm window, frozen. In the distance, I saw the ocean roaring back and forth, a lone sparrow soaring effortlessly above, and a building sprawled with the name Winslow in gold letters. As I stared at the word, my eyes threatened to roll out of my head. Students rushed across the courtyard near the building. People, with their phones, backpacks, and briefcases, exuded a sense of direction and purpose. Then there was me, Abigail Winslow.

After finishing my classes, I walked to the art building, through the halls, and entered the studio. In the large room, students sat in sectioned-off spaces, consumed by their individual projects. Soft brushes caressed canvases, pottery wheels spun with a steady hum, and the gentle scratching of pencils on paper created a symphony of artistic sounds in the room.

I walked to my designated space, my secret sanctuary, which I have had since I was a freshman. The area had a window with a stunning view of the campus garden, a wooden table nearby, some storage shelves, and a large easel. The shelves and tables were a jumble of sketchbooks and paintings. I had the freedom to be whoever I wanted in this space, without needing to perform for anyone.

As I began painting, my hands took over in instinctual movement. With each brush stroke, my mind quieted. The canvas transformed into tones of light and dark. Cobalt blues blended seamlessly with cadmium yellows, creating a dynamic composition of abstract radiance. As the lines and exaggerations swirled and morphed, each accent and gradation became an unspoken phrase in my artistic dialogue with the world. The canvas turned into an azure butterfly fleeing toward a ray of golden sunshine.

My paintbrush swirled in a cup of water, cleansing the colors like purging intrusive thoughts. I meticulously wiped it dry on a paper towel; each stroke aimed to dissipate the dread building in me. But as I glided it up and down, black seeped through, as dark as the doom of my impending meeting with my father.

Typically, time faded into a distant memory when I painted. However, I couldn't help but notice the hours slipping away this time. The sun started its descent, slowly casting long shadows across my canvas, and I reluctantly cleaned up my workspace. Apprehension grew in the pit of my stomach, setting my nerves in overdrive. Wish as I may, I could not avoid talking to him.

A large iron gate allowed me entry when I arrived. Our mansion had stood for generations, a testament to our family’s wealth and influence in Elysian Shores. Doric columns stood tall in front of the two-story colonial. As a child, this house was a treasure trove of wonder and adventure. But as an adult, it transformed into a symbol of confinement instead of comfort, like a prison with strict rules that dictated my every action and behavior.

Inside, the atmosphere was cold and formal. The servants rushed to their duties with precision. My boots clacked on the marble floors, echoing through the halls as I went to my father’s study.

I took a deep breath when I approached the ornate double doors, mentally preparing myself. I knocked softly, and a voice as hard as granite beckoned me to enter. My father, a commanding centerpiece, sat behind his massive mahogany desk. His face, engraved with the wisdom of age and the weight of authority, regarded me with an unwavering scrutiny that carved into the very marrow of my being. His office, polished with sepia bookcases and austere leather furnishings, bore testament to his power. With his phone resting on his shoulder, he nodded and pointed at a chair opposite him. I sat, and the chair’s leather upholstery was cool as I rubbed my hands back and forth.

“We have competition, but this buy is a must-have. Listen, let me call you back.” He ended the call with the touch of his phone. “There’s my girl!”

As he said this, my posture grew tall. Despite my anxiety, my expression remained calm and stoic.

“As you know, our family companies have been the foundation of our success for generations.”

Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes, my fingers lightly traced the edge of a paper on his desk. I nodded hesitantly.

He leaned back with his fingers steepled in front of him. “As you approach graduation, thinking about the future is important. I expect that you step into a leadership role like your sister. There is a wide range of options currently, especially in the real estate market.

I focused on breathing, trying to calm the burning sensation. I longed to show my talent freely. It yearned to shine under the spotlight of an admiring audience.

“Father, I appreciate the opportunities you’ve given me, but—”

“You’re part of a lineage that has worked tirelessly to build what we have today. Being added to that line and carrying on the legacy is truly an honor. Never take that for granted.”

A pang of guilt washed over me. I had everything I wanted and was aware of our family’s privilege. However, I had never been happy and could no longer prioritize others. I gathered my courage and tried to speak again.

“I know the honor that carries, but I have been thinking...”

He tilted his head. “Go on.”

My hands clasped together tightly in my lap. “Well… I find deep fulfillment in painting. It’s something that I have loved since I was little… and well–”

“What will painting get you?”

“Art is where I express myself and connect with the world.”

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine. “It's not a profession, just a hobby. That will not sustain your life or our fortune. It would be best if you didn’t underestimate the responsibility that comes with our name. Your great-grandparents started our success, your grandparents furthered it, and your mother and I have made it bigger than ever. Your sister has taken her place, and now it’s your turn.”

“Our legacy hangs over my head like an anvil every single day. Is it wrong to want to pursue something of my own? What is terrible about something that makes me happy?”

With a sigh, he examined me closely, his face betraying no hint of his thoughts. “I want you to be happy, but you were born into this. Your future lies within our business. It’s about carrying the torch on.”

I lowered my gaze, looking at my hands in my lap. My fingers twiddled back and forth as I realized I would not win this argument. He clarified his views on this when I wanted to take painting classes as a child, and he refused to pay for them. I put my hands on the desk, feeling defeated.

His hands reached across, resting on mine. Although his touch should offer comfort, his coarse fingers rubbed against mine. “I only want what’s best for you. I believe you can accomplish great things. Remember, you are a Winslow. I expect you to act accordingly.”

He leaned back in his chair, waiting for my reply. I opened my mouth for a moment but couldn’t find words. Glancing around the room, I tried to find something tangible to reach him. There had to be artwork somewhere. The walls were full of newspaper pages featuring articles about expansions, Winslow education acquisitions, and photos of when my father was on Forbes’ lists. Among the many frames, there was not a single piece of art.

My eyes met his, and their frosty blue sought my agreement. His sleek, peppered-gray hair did not have a strand out of place. A Rolex rested on his wrist, one of many he owned. He prioritized being the best dressed person in the room. People around him were required to live up to his high expectations. He encouraged me and my sister’s talents, but only when they fit into the confinement of what it meant to be a Winslow. Growing up had been like walking a tightrope, weighted by balancing his demands while longing to be free of them. I had never dared to step off that line or defy him. He considered it a betrayal to deviate from his plans, as it went against everything he took pride in.

I nodded, giving him the illusion of compliance. His phone rang, and he glanced at it.

“I need to take this. We will discuss this further another time.” He touched his phone, put it to his ear, and dived back into the conversation I had interrupted.

Taking my cue to leave, I stood, my steps retracing my way out. The drive back to my dorm matched my thoughts. Roads seemed to twist like my tangled emotions. As a little girl, I actively sought approval, desperate for praise, especially my father’s. I now found that his love was conditional and contingent on living vicariously through me.