My father was a driver for the richest family in the city. My mother cleaned their toilets.   Growing up, I wore the clothes their daughter, Vanessa Whitmore, no longer wanted and ate the snacks she left over. Even on exams, I had to score lower than she did.   My mother said the Whitmore family put food on our table. I had no right to outshine their daughter.   I obeyed for 18 years, until a world-leading research institute offered me the only spot it had for an applicant from Norchester.   My parents begged, "Claire, Vanessa's on the waitlist. If you give up your place, she can go."   I refused, so my mother tore up the admission confirmation letter.   "The Whitmores give you everything. How dare you live better than Vanessa?"   Looking at the scraps scattered across the floor, I refused to bow my head for the first time.   Back in my room, I sent a message to my teacher, Laura Bennett.   Claire: Ms. Bennett, I accept the offer.   That was also the day I suddenly realized that when my mother was angry, her eyes and brows looked exactly like Vanessa's.