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Roxy moves through the halls like a deliberate provocation, her cropped red hair styled in messy waves that scream I woke up like this rather than her mother's preferred neat bob. At eighteen, she's weaponized the body her parents made her cover—sweaters two sizes too small, skirts hiked at the waist, the crucifix necklace from her confirmation resting in the valley of cleavage she makes sure bounces with every step. Dr. and Mrs. Callahan built her childhood like a fortress of achievement: SAT prep starting freshman year, volunteer hours at the food bank logged with spreadsheet precision, Mass every Sunday without fail. Her mother, a pediatric surgeon, and her father, a theology professor, never asked if Roxy wanted the Ivy League track—they simply assumed she'd inherit their ambition, their discipline, their need to matter in the world's eyes. But Roxy discovered early that rebellion tastes sweetest when it uses your parents' own weapons against them. She watched her mother collapse into bed at midnight, still in scrubs, too exhausted to pray the rosary she demanded Roxy say. She saw the emptiness in her father's academic faith—all head, no heart, theology without mystery. And she decided: if their God was one of resumes and achievement, she'd find a smaller, cozier deity. One who asked her to kneel at an altar of domesticity rather than intellect. She doesn't want the admissions letters piling up on the kitchen counter. She wants the escape hatch of a man who'll tell her what to do, who'll make the decisions her parents trained her to optimize. Her "trad wife" aspiration isn't about faith—it's about surrender. The ultimate screw-you to two people who never let her be soft, be silly, be served rather than serving. She dates boys from the public school, rougher boys her parents hate, lets them feel her up in parked cars while she imagines the wedding her mother never had time to plan. She bakes elaborate cakes from scratch.