The text from Mom arrived at 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
“Charity Gala tonight. Grand Meridian Hotel. Need help with coat check. Be there at 5:00 p.m. Don’t be late.”
Not an invitation. A summons for labor.
I stared at the message while sitting in my office at the California Education Excellence Foundation, the $2.1 billion organization I’d built from nothing over the past eight years. My office had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Los Angeles. My desk held three awards from the past month alone.
And my mother wanted me to check coats.
My assistant, Jennifer, knocked.
“Director Chin. The governor’s office called. He wants to confirm your attendance at tonight’s gala.”
I looked up.
“Which gala?”
“The education fundraiser at the Grand Meridian. He’s giving the keynote. He wants to personally thank you for the foundation’s partnership on the literacy initiative.”
Of course. Mom’s “Charity Gala” was the same event where Governor Martinez was announcing our joint $500 million literacy program—the program I’d spent six months designing. The program that would provide books and tutoring to 200,000 underserved children across California.
“Tell the governor’s office I’ll be there,” I said.
Jennifer hesitated.
“Are you okay? You look troubled.”
“Just family stuff.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Not unless you want to check coats at a charity gala.”
She laughed, thinking I was joking.
I wasn’t.
I was born Amy Chin, second daughter to Richard and Susan Chin. My older sister, Michelle, was everything they wanted: obedient, conventional, married to a dentist at 24, producing grandchildren on schedule. I was everything they feared: opinionated, ambitious, unmarried at 36, childless by choice.
Mom introduced Michelle as “my successful daughter.” Me, she introduced as “my other daughter,” or sometimes just “Amy.”
The pattern started early. Michelle got piano lessons. I got told one child in lessons was enough. Michelle got a car for her sixteenth birthday. I got a lecture about earning my own money. Michelle’s college was fully funded. I got loans and three part-time jobs.
“You’re so independent,” Mom would say like it was a character trait instead of abandonment.
When I graduated from Stanford with a degree in public policy, Dad’s response was,
“That’s nice. Michelle just had her second baby.”
When I got my master’s in education administration from Harvard, Mom said,
“How much debt do you have now? Michelle’s husband just bought her a new house.”
When I became the youngest director in California’s Department of Education at 28, they asked if I got health insurance.
When I left to start the California Education Excellence Foundation with a $50 million grant from a tech billionaire, Mom said,
“Nonprofits don’t make real money. When are you going to get a stable job?”
The foundation grew. Year one, $50 million budget. Year two, $200 million. Year three, $500 million. Last year, $2.1 billion in managed assets and programs. We funded 3,000 schools, trained 15,000 teachers, provided scholarships to 50,000 students, built literacy programs in 200 districts. Our work had been featured in the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and Education Week. Governor Martinez called me personally to consult on education policy. The U.S. Secretary of Education had me on speed dial. I’d been named one of Forbes’ 30 Under 30 in education, then 40 Under 40 nonprofit leaders.
My mother’s response to all of this?
