My family told me not to come over on New Year’s Eve because “I’d just make everyone uncomfortable,” so I spent the night alone in my apartment. But at 12:01 a.m., my brother called—his voice shaking. “What did you do? Dad just saw the news, and he’s having trouble breathing…”

Then came the call.

“Ava, we need to talk about Lucas.” My mother’s voice had that serrated edge, the one that signaled a command, not a request. “Reynolds Medical Group is having a difficult quarter. The investors are restless. Your brother is under enormous pressure. You need to help.”

I tried to explain that I was in a critical development phase. That my startup was fragile.

“Startup?” She said the word like it was something she’d stepped in. “Ava, startups are for people with nothing to lose. You have a legacy. You have a duty. Lucas needs support, and you’re sitting in that little apartment playing with computers.”

The implication was clear: My work was a hobby. Lucas’s work was the world.

But I had learned something at MIT that my mother’s social graces never covered: Protect your IP.

Before I drove to Greenwich, I met with Daniel Brooks, a lawyer who specialized in intellectual property for tech startups. We sat in a bakery in Cambridge, the smell of flour and yeast heavy in the air, my laptop open between us.

“If anyone tries to claim this,” Daniel said, sliding a patent application across the scratched wooden table, “we need a paper trail that even the best corporate sharks can’t chew through.”

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