Work Text:
Age 7
The question came after recess.
Sophie, one of Estelle’s classmates, was chewing on the sleeve of her sweater before tilting her head and asking, “Are you a princess?”
Estelle blinked, confused. “No?”
“Really?” The girl squinted at her. “But your daddy’s a prince! I saw him on the TV!”
Estelle just shrugged, not knowing what to say. There weren’t any crowns in her house. No thrones, no servants. Just a coffee machine that made weird noises in the middle of the night.
That night, after dinner and bath time, Estelle curled up between her parents on the living room couch. The blanket was soft and blue, and she liked the way her papa’s arm always made the best pillow. Her daddy was reading aloud to them one of their grown-up books. However, Sophie’s question from earlier was still in Estelle’s mind.
“Daddy? Papa? Am I a princess?” she finally asked.
Daddy had stopped reading and looked up from his book. “Oh?”
Papa shifted so he was facing Estelle. “Where is this coming from, Estrella?”
“Sophie said I have to be a princess ‘cause you’re a prince.”
Daddy sighed and set his book down. “I was born into a royal family,” he seemed to be picking his words carefully. “That’s true.”
Estelle blinked. “But… I don’t have a crown or a castle or anything. So… does that mean I’m not a princess?”
“Well,” Papa said. “Technically, maybe. But your daddy and I wanted something different.”
“Different how?”
“We wanted you to grow up as you,” Papa said gently. “Being a prince or princess can sound fun, but sometimes it’s… a lot. And we didn’t want that for you.”
“But people still know you,” Estelle said, eyes furrowed. “You’re on TV. Sophie told me so.”
Papa gave her a soft smile. “They know what we do. That’s not the same as knowing who we are.”
Estelle didn’t totally understand, but she liked the way it sounded.
“Besides,” Daddy added, brushing a curl from Estelle’s forehead, “you know what our most important job is, right?”
Papa tapped her nose gently, causing Estelle to giggle. “ You. Being your parents. That always comes first.”
“You might not be a princess,” Daddy said, “but you are ours. And that’s much better.”
“Our little princesa,” Papa kissed the top of her head.
Estelle smiled. She liked that.
She nestled back into the couch and let her eyes close. The blanket was warm. Her parents were home. And tomorrow, if Sophie asked again, she’d know exactly what to say.
෴⚘₊˚෴𖥧𖤣𖥧෴˚₊𖥧𓋼෴𖤣𓍊𖥧෴˚⋆.𓇗⋆˚෴‧₊˚𓆑
Age 11
The whispers always came after the morning after announcements.
Sometimes they were small. Other times, they were heavy.
Today, it was a headline.
Someone’s dad had said something on a radio show about her papa’s latest case. Estelle didn’t even know what it was about. But she heard her dads’ names, and then her own, floating through the lunch line like smoke.
Estelle pretended not to hear.
She sat near the edge of the cafeteria, unzipping her lunchbox slowly. A girl she didn’t know plopped down beside her.
“My dad said your dad gave up a castle to be with your other dad. Is that true?” the girl whispered.
“I don’t know,” Estelle said quietly, peeling the corner off her sandwich.
Another girl leaned in. “Are you going to be queen someday?”
“No,” Estelle said, louder than she meant to.
There was a pause. Someone giggled.
Estelle ate in silence after that, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on the table. She could feel the other kids watching, not exactly with cruelty - just curiosity. Like she was in a museum case. Something rare.
That night, dinner was her favorite: roasted chicken, rice, and green beans that weren’t too mushy. Her dads were chatting softly. The room glowed with warm yellow light, the windows fogged from the cold outside.
“How was school?” Papa asked, wiping his mouth.
Estelle stabbed at her beans. “Fine.” It wasn’t fine. If anything, it was everything but fine.
Dad spoke after a beat of silence. “Did something happen?”
Estelle looked down at her plate. More silence. “People keep saying stuff. About you. About… me.”
“What kind of stuff?” Papa asked gently.
Estelle shrugged. “Like how you’re on the news. Or that Dad used to be a prince. Or if I’m gonna be queen. They make it sound like… like I’m not me.”
Her voice wavered. “I don’t like it.”
Neither of them said anything right away. The silence didn’t feel heavy - just careful.
Then Dad set his fork down. “You know, when I was your age, people used to follow me around just to see if I did something ‘royal’.” he said, making air quotes.
“I hated it,” Dad continued. “Because I was just… me. Not a headline.”
Estelle looked at Dad, hope in her eyes. “So you get it?”
“I do,” he said. “And Papa does too.”
Papa reached across the table, his hand warm over Estelle’s. “We can’t always stop people from watching,” he said. “But we can make sure you don’t lose yourself in it.”
“How?”
“By reminding you,” Dad said. “Every day, if we have to. That you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. You’re Estelle. And that’s enough.”
෴⚘₊˚෴𖥧𖤣𖥧෴˚₊𖥧𓋼෴𖤣𓍊𖥧෴˚⋆.𓇗⋆˚෴‧₊˚𓆑
Age 15
The bookstore was her escape. Tucked between a quiet coffee shop and a florist with half-dead plants, it was the kind of place where no one looked twice at a girl in a hoodie.
Estelle liked it best on rainy days. The air smelled like paper and dust and something a little magical.
She was in the poetry aisle, finally alone.
Then, there was a sudden click of a camera, too close.
She turned.
A woman with glossy lipstick and a press badge half-tucked into her coat stepped forward, practically shoving a microphone in her face.
“Estelle Claremont-Diaz-Fox?” she asked brightly.
Estelle froze.
The woman didn’t wait for an answer. “How does it feel to grow up as the daughter of the couple of the century?”
A camera appeared behind the woman. A red light blinked on.
Estelle blinked back.
“I-I’m just trying to buy a book,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Do you see yourself entering public life someday?” the woman pushed through, ignoring her. “Politics? Diplomacy? Maybe something more modern like activism or youth advocacy?”
Estelle took a step back. “Please don’t film me.”
The camera stayed up. A second mic appeared from the side. Another reporter. “You’ve got both royal blood and political legacy,” he said. “People are curious. What do you want to do with that?”
“I didn’t ask for any of that,” Estelle said quietly.
“Run that by me one more time. We need to make sure that the mic picks up your words, sweetie.” The woman smiled a sweet smile. The kind of sweet that hid something venomous underneath.
Estelle turned and walked away.
She left her book on the shelf. Hurried her way out of what was supposed to be her safe haven. Pushed through the door and into the cold air, chest tight, heart racing. Rain had started falling - light and spitting. It felt like needles on her skin.
Estelle couldn’t think.
She just moved. One foot, then the next.
Each step a little farther away.
All she knew was that she had to get away.
She didn’t stop walking until she reached home, soaked through and shivering.
Her hoodie stuck to her arms. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She stared at the door for a long time before going inside.
She didn’t know how she was going to tell her parents.
She loved them - she really did. But sometimes she wished things were different.
Sometimes she wished she wasn’t Estelle Claremont-Diaz-Fox.
Sometimes she just wanted to be nobody.
Just a girl in a hoodie, buying a book.
And while her parents have done everything in their power to make their life seem normal, it never would be.
෴⚘₊˚෴𖥧𖤣𖥧෴˚₊𖥧𓋼෴𖤣𓍊𖥧෴˚⋆.𓇗⋆˚෴‧₊˚𓆑
Age 17
The application screen sat open on her computer like it was staring back at her.
It was simple - just a line, really:
INTENDED MAJOR
But she’d been staring at the options for nearly an hour.
It felt like a trap disguised as a choice.
Estelle Claremont-Diaz-Fox. Daughter of Alex Claremont-Diaz and Henry Fox. Granddaughter of the first female president of the United States and the Queen of England.
Every time she clicked something - Political Science, Global Studies, Government, English Literature - she clicked off. Not because she didn’t like those things, but because she didn’t know if she liked them… or if the world had told her to.
Her phone buzzed. A notification:
“New article: Estelle Claremont-Diaz-Fox seen at Columbia“
She hadn’t told anyone. Someone had posted a picture anyway.
She felt watched.
By strangers. By history. By the name at the end of every article headline.
By the law degree hanging up in her papa’s office. By the books written by her dad that were sitting on the shelves.
Later that night, she knocked on the office door.
“Come in!” Alex called out.
Estelle opened the door.
“Do you think I have to do something big?” Estelle asked before she could talk herself out of it.
He paused. “What do you mean by big?”
“I mean… I don’t know. Important. Public. Loud. Something worth the name.”
“You mean the name you didn’t ask for?”
Estelle chuckled to herself, but there was no humor in it. “That’s the one.”
Alex paused, coffee mug in hand. Even now he couldn’t stop drinking it.
“I think,” Alex said finally, “you can do something big. It doesn’t have to fit in a headline, it just has to be worth something to you.”
Estelle fiddled with her fingers. “I’m tired of being watched.”
“Nothing is set in stone. You can start something and realize that maybe that’s not what you want. Your next step should be something that’s just for you. No one else. Just yours.”
The next morning, she stared at the application again.
Her papa’s words came back to her.
“Something that’s just for you.”
And she’d found it, unexpectedly, last semester - in a seminar on ecology and urban design. It was practical. Messy. Real. No metaphors required. Just systems and soil and how people lived and breathed and built.
She’d fallen in love with it quietly. She never told anyone about it. A class no one expected her to take. A subject no one associated with her family.
She clicked on a box. “Urban Studies” right next to it.
That night, she got some texts in the family group chat after sending a picture of her application. While she knew that her parents would support her no matter what, Estelle wasn’t sure of how they would react to her major. She figured that sending it over text would be easier.
Estelle smiled to herself, but she didn’t text back right away.
Instead, she looked at the form again. Her name at the top. Her choices underneath. No strings attached.
Just hers.
෴⚘₊˚෴𖥧𖤣𖥧෴˚₊𖥧𓋼෴𖤣𓍊𖥧෴˚⋆.𓇗⋆˚෴‧₊˚𓆑
Age 20
The studio smelled like soil, wood glue, and someone’s forgotten thermos of coffee.
It was late - far too late for most of the other students - but Estelle liked working at night. The light was gentler. The space was quieter. Her thoughts could stretch out.
Her hands were covered in charcoal dust and bits of moss. She was hunched over a three-dimensional model of an abandoned lot she’d redesigned into a multi-layered green space: edible gardens, stormwater channels, native plants that cleaned the air.
She sat back, wiped her palms on her jeans, and let herself breathe.
For the first time in a long time, Estelle didn’t feel like she was performing. She was building. And the things she built didn’t need a name or a spotlight. They just needed to work. To live in the background, quietly helping people breathe easier.
She heard footsteps.
Professor Menon wandered over, his hands behind his back. He was in his fifties, thoughtful, always smelled like sawdust and basil.
“This is yours?” he asked, tilting his head toward the model.
Estelle nodded, suddenly self-conscious.
He crouched down to examine it more closely. “You used permeable stone here?”
“Yeah. It reduces runoff. And if we filter the graywater from the buildings nearby, we can use it for irrigation.”
He hummed in approval. “You’ve got a good eye. And a patient hand.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s not flashy,” he added thoughtfully. “But it’s solid. Lasting.”
Estelle’s throat caught for a moment. That was what she’d wanted, she realized. Not attention. Not applause.
Just lasting.
Later that week, she went with her roommate to a campus panel.
She wasn’t speaking - just there to support a friend. But someone recognized her as she lingered near the back, trying to disappear into her hoodie.
“You’re Estelle, right?”
The girl was probably her age - curly hair, wide-eyed, badge swinging from her lanyard.
“That’s my name,” Estelle said.
The girl laughed, nervous. “Sorry. Just, I’m a huge fan of your dad. His books helped me get through high school. And your other dad? Like, I want to do law because of him.”
Estelle smiled, tired but warm. “Yeah, they’re pretty great.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “But I heard you’re not doing anything like… writing or politics or anything?”
“No.” Estelle tensed. “I’m not.”
“Oh.” The girl hesitated. “I mean, that’s cool. Just… unexpected, I guess.”
Estelle shrugged “It is.”
Another pause.
Then the girl asked, softly “Do you ever feel like people are waiting for you to do something bigger?”
Estelle didn’t answer right away, thinking over her words for a bit.
“I used to,” she started. “I used to think I owed the world something big. Something loud. Something that matched the name I was born with.”
She smiled. “Now I just build to make something that’s mine.”
The girl looked at her for a long moment. Then nodded.
“That’s kind of beautiful.”
That night, back in her room, Estelle sat on the floor and photographed her model. Her phone camera didn’t do it justice - the shadows were too sharp, the moss too washed out - but she didn’t care.
She texted the photo to her parents.
It was late, so they didn’t text back. But she knew that they would be proud of her when they saw it in the morning. She put her phone down and got up to wash the dirt and charcoal from her hands.
Then she curled into bed, her fingers still tingling from the shape of the world she was learning to build.