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Growing up, it didn’t take long for me to realize how incredibly different my life was compared to the rest of the world. Most people had one house, not four vacation homes in different locations around the world, two beach properties—one on the East Coast and the other on the West—and one luxury penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. In the first grade, I visited a classmate’s house to work on a science project and was shocked to find out she did chores. I always had maids to clean up after me, to fold my clothes and put away my dishes. Chauffeurs didn’t drive every car on the road—most people drove their own. And owning a private jet? That wasn’t normal either. My dad was the definition of successful, and it was a lot, maybe even too much, to live up to. I tried anyway. I had to for my mom. In school, not only did I have the highest GPA in my year, but I also became the student council president and head of the yearbook committee as a freshman. During the summers, I interned at my dad’s company, while at the same time helping my mother plan her autumn charity ball.
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