“This is a real company, Mom,” I said.

“It looks like trouble,” she said. “You had such a bright future in research. People respected you.”

I heard a rustle on the other end of the line, and then my father’s voice came through the speaker.

“Sarah?” he said.

“Yes, Dad?”

“I watched the video,” he said, his voice unusually clear. “The lights stayed on.”

“They did,” I said.

“Good job, sweetheart,” he said.

I heard my mother start to speak in the background, but my father hung up the phone before she could finish.

I set the receiver down on the cradle.

For the first time in my life, the weight of her expectations felt light, like something I could easily carry or drop on the floor without breaking.

***

Six months later, the air was cold and clean.

We were standing on a grassy ridge in the East Bay, overlooking a new municipal housing development.

The ground was damp from the morning rain, the mud sticking to the soles of my work boots.

The city had finally settled the dispute, granting us a full permit to build three more microgrids.