Chronicles of the onion flavour

Her mother wanted her to become a doctor. Surgery like her grandfather, or Pediatrics. But her father pushed her to Law School. She could work with him, or fly even higher, and become a judge, a politian, or something else. After all, he thought, a lawyer is the right man for almost every job. In this case, the woman, her daughter. She was the best student in her class in high school, and repeated that success in college, one of the best in the world, or so they said. Whenever she came home, proudly with an A in her hand, her parents thanked cordially, but warned her that she did not fulfilled more than her duty. Her life was one large duty, and she fulfilled it perfectly, like a machine: without a soul, without a feeling, without tasting the winnings, and crying the losses. She had never lost, because one cannot lose if one loves not, one cannot be defeated if one does not participate in the war in the first place, and, eventually, she became one of the best lawyers ever to exist. But, apparently, never too good for her father. She was ruthless, daring and calculating, and she had never been caught off guard. After clearing entries and ruin families, she found Politics, just like her father had dreamt. It was a shiny world, full of people full of themselves, and she thought she truly belonged in that place. She discovered she could speak to the crowd, and that power made her horny. She became really powerful, almost like if she owned the impossible, or if she reached the stars. But what she didn’t realized is that it is impossible to reach the stars without dreaming of them long before. And she never stopped for one minute to answer the question her parents never asked her when they pulled her out of her enchanted world: that what she really wanted was to be a ballerina, like the ones she used to read in fairy tales, long before she knew what the Constitution was.