\u201cTo\u00a0Northlane Analytics,\u201d my father said, raising his glass. The crystal caught the chandelier light, casting a prism across his forehead. \u201cTo our daughter\u2019s triumph.\u201d<\/p>\n
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\u201cTo Elena,\u201d my mother added, her voice soft, wrapped in the cotton-wool guilt she had perfected over three decades.<\/p>\n
I raised my glass, the wine tasting metallic against my tongue. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n
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My name is\u00a0Elena Brooks. Five years ago, I was nobody\u2014just a burnt-out data scientist with a rented desk in a drafty co-working space and a secondhand laptop that overheated if I opened too many spreadsheets. Now,\u00a0Northlane\u00a0employed forty people, occupied two floors of a glass-and-steel tower downtown, and had just inked a partnership with a European logistics giant.<\/p>\n
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