Other children talked about expensive cars, beautiful houses, and the kinds of jobs that made people famous.
She wanted those things too, sometimes.
She wasn't immune to ambition.
She loved beautiful clothes.
She admired successful businesswomen.
And she imagined living in a magnificent apartment high above Manhattan, with enormous windows and enough space for her mother to have a bedroom overlooking the city.
But whenever she imagined being rich, she also saw the hospital waiting room.
The frightened father.
The little boy in the blue blanket.
And the way her mother had spoken to him without making him feel small.
Her family lived in a modest apartment in Brooklyn.
Her father operated a small transportation business with two vans, helping local organizations move equipment and supplies.
Her mother worked at the hospital.
They were stable most months, but there was rarely much money left after rent, groceries, insurance, and other expenses.
When the family van required an expensive repair, they postponed their annual vacation.
When the girl's father lost a major transportation contract, her mother picked up extra shifts.
And when the girl earned a scholarship to a private summer mathematics program, her parents sat at the kitchen table figuring out how to pay for the transportation.
She remembered those conversations.
Not because her parents complained.
Because they didn't.
They simply made decisions together.
Sometimes the answer was yes.
Sometimes it was no.
Sometimes they had to wait.
And sometimes they found a way that none of them had considered at first.
By sixteen, the girl had developed a fascination with financial systems.
She wanted to know why some neighborhoods had modern bank branches with dedicated business advisors while others had few reliable financial services.
She wanted to understand credit.
Interest rates.
Business loans.