Page 4 of Protecting What's Mine
I push my red-rimmed glasses further up my nose, torn away from my reading. The paragraph on behavioral epigenetics had been enthralling—exploring how historical traumas like the Holocaust or China’s Cultural Revolution might influence inherited DNA. Amazing stuff. No, seriously.
“I’m coming,” I call back reluctantly, my voice tinged with resignation. With a heavy sigh, I toss theEpigeneticstextbook into my leather tote, its well-worn edges disappearing into the abyss alongside a clutter of highlighters, sticky notes, and half-filled notebooks.
For a brief moment, I close my eyes and imagine the quiet comfort of a university library, where the muted rustle of pages and the gentle hum of distant whispers create a cocoon of focus. I crave the sanctity of a secluded corner, surrounded by towering bookshelves, where time dissolves into the thrill of discovery. But my reality is a far cry from the college life I once dreamed of. Instead of lecture halls and lively campus debates, I have private tutors—an obligatory luxury bestowed upon me as the daughter of the world’s most eminent scientist.
I did, however, go to arealhigh school. An experience I wouldn’t let my father take away from me. I’d wanted to be normal, although once in high school I realized how far from normal I truly was. While other girls my age cared about football and shopping at the mall, I was nose-deep in my science textbooks studying molecular biology and quantum physics.
My father, Dr. Frederick Malser, is a walking encyclopedia with an impressive array of accolades: Nobel Prize, Abel Prize, Turing Award, and a dozen others whose names I can never quite recall. His brilliance has inspired reverence from nations and the envy of academic peers. Some call him the smartest man alive. I call himDad.
Living with someone of his stature is both a privilege and a constraint. It means I’ve grown up with front-row seats to groundbreaking research, endless intellectual stimulation, and a life of extraordinary experiences. But it also means my days are dictated by his rigorous schedule, my own aspirations often taking a backseat. Most of the time, I can appreciate the opportunity to immerse myself in learning. But there are moments, like now, when the weight of his shadow presses heavily on me, suffocating the vibrant independence I long for.
With a pang of frustration, I zip up my bag and head toward the bathroom, hastily gathering my toiletries. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—faint dark circles under my eyes from late-night reading, a loose braid falling over one shoulder. I don’t look like the jet-setting daughter of a celebrated scientist; I look like a tired twenty-two-year-old with too many thoughts and too few outlets.
“I’m not sure why I have to be babysat,” I mutter as I re-enter the living area, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. My father looks up then, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. It’s his version of disapproval, though he rarely expresses it outright.
“It’s not babysitting,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind. “It’s exposure. You’re lucky to have these opportunities.”
I bite back a retort, sinking into the couch opposite him. He doesn’t understand—or maybe he does and chooses to ignore it. Traveling the globe, attending conferences, and witnessing breakthroughs firsthand might be thrilling to him, but to me, it often feels like gilded captivity.
“I’ve told you already,” my father says, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation as he leans back in the armchair. “This is a significant event, and there are people who don’t want me speaking at the Summit.”
The G20 Summit, an exclusive gathering of global leaders, innovators, and policymakers, is indeed a prestigious affair. Just thinking about it stirs an ache of longing in me. It’s a reminder of my strange limbo—I’m a researcher in all but name, contributing to my father’s groundbreaking projects without official recognition or compensation. To the world, I am invisible, a nameless cog in the machinery of his genius.
I slump back further into the plush leather couch, letting out an exaggerated sigh, and toss my legs onto the mahogany coffee table in front of me. The ornate table, polished to a mirror finish, reflects the restless energy in my posture. “Who?” I ask, my voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “Who are these people so desperate to stop your appearance?”
My father glances at me over the rim of his glasses, his expression both tired and resigned. “Some group who doesn’t want science interfering with food,” he replies, shrugging as if to downplay the gravity of the opposition.
I sit up straighter, my brow furrowing. “But don’t they realize you’re developing technologies that could feed millions? That this could solve world hunger?” My voice rises, carrying the passion I feel every time we talk about his work. I’ve seen the data, run the calculations, even helped refine the models. The potential impact is staggering—life-changing for so many.
He takes off his glasses with a practiced motion and begins meticulously cleaning the lenses with a soft cloth. The small, deliberate action feels like a metaphor for his approach to life—methodical, precise, and unwavering, even in the face of resistance. “They fear what they don’t understand,” he says after a moment, his tone almost wistful. “That’s why I need to present my data in a way that even a two-year-old can grasp. Simplify the science so it’s not intimidating.”
I cross my arms, leaning back into the couch with a huff. “Well, I think your speech is brilliant,” I say firmly, as though my approval carries the weight of the Nobel committee.
A rare smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, that familiar crooked half-smile I’ve come to associate with his rare momentsof pride. “Thanks, peanut. You’ve always been my biggest supporter.”
I laugh softly, the sound breaking the tension. “Well, I’m smart too, remember? And I can take care of myself. I don’t need a babysitter.”
He gives me a pointed look, his smile fading into something more serious. “It’s not about babysitting, you know that.”
But the words hang between us, unspoken: It’s just the two of us. It always has been.
I flash him a grin. “Besides,” I add, “I’ll bet you anything your speech is so good even the people protesting you will want to take notes.”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head as he puts his glasses back on. “Maybe. But I’m not taking any chances.”
As he picks up his tablet and begins scrolling through his presentation notes again, I lean back on the couch, studying him. Despite the weariness in his features, there’s still a spark of determination in his eyes. He’s carried the weight of the world’s expectations for as long as I’ve known him, and yet, he never falters.
It’s inspiring. And infuriating.
While other young women my age chatter over coffee about weekend plans or the latest gossip, I’m deep in research papers, conferences, and lab work. At twenty-two, I boast a Master’s in Molecular Biology and am neck-deep in my PhD research. Few can match my academic achievements, and I take pride in that. Socially inept? Perhaps. I wouldn’t know. My understanding of normal human behavior is cobbled together from TikTok videosand predictable rom-coms. Relationships, small talk, or even casual friendships seem like foreign concepts to me. But in science, I excel. Corny as it sounds, my passion for it consumes me—it’s my purpose, my identity, and, occasionally, my escape.
“You can bring your jewelry and make some of your creations,” my father says absentmindedly, fiddling with the knot of his tie as he paces near the window of our suite. His gaze is distant, already halfway through his mental checklist for the day.
The mention of jewelry tugs at something warm inside me. It’s one of the rare activities we bond over—creating intricate pieces, a hobby we both enjoy but rarely have time for. Rising from my seat, I step closer to him and tug at the tie, straightening it with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. His collar is slightly wrinkled, and I smooth it down, my hands working on autopilot.
“I plan on it,” I reply, my voice soft but tinged with an underlying frustration. As much as I love these shared moments, his comment is a reminder of how confined my world still is. “I just want to know when you’ll trust me enough to be on my own.”
His expression tightens, and for a brief moment, he looks at me—not the brilliant scientist, not his capable assistant, but as his daughter. “We can discuss that later,” he says firmly, though there’s an edge of evasion in his tone that I know too well.