I was born with a congenital heart defect that required corrective surgery several times during my childhood. Thanks to my poor circulation, I spent most of my early years traipsing through the palace corridors draped in several woolen blankets to ward off the constant chill. My perpetually frigid skin earned me the moniker of “Ice Princess” from the palace staff when they thought I couldn’t hear them. My aloof demeanor probably contributed to the nickname as well.

My heart finally received a clean bill of health at age ten, which prompted my enrollment at the most exclusive and elite preparatory school in the country, Bridgemont Academy. Until that point, I was tutored privately at home. My interactions with anyone my age were limited to the children of dukes and lords at a few exclusive events.

While the main justification for the perpetual isolation was my poor health, I know my parents were also wary of the risks the outside world posed to me in particular, as their sole heir. As a result, they surrounded me with a constant rotation of nannies, tutors, and security that became a fixed presence in my everyday life.

An hour at Bridgemont Academy was all it took to permanently abate me of the notion that my life was ordinary in any way. Even amongst the offspring of the most privileged, wealthy, and powerful citizens in the country, my status was unchallenged.

Instructors didn’t discipline me.

My peers looked at me with awe.

No one wanted to risk angering the future queen.

I took full advantage of the leniency, essentially doing as I pleased, especially once I realized my security detail would only intervene if they thought I was in physical danger. The deference I was treated with was flattering, but it was also boring.

Eight monotonous years later, my final days at Bridgemont Academy are rapidly approaching. This fall, I’m expected to start my university years at Edgewood College. A prospect I’m thoroughly dreading.

Although the shift to university means I will be living on my own for the first time—in a heavily guarded apartment with round-the-clock staff—my classmates will remain the same stuffy, serious, and spoiled group I’ve spent the past eight years with. The few peers I find remotely interesting were deterred years ago by my omnipresent security.

Adding to my already apathetic feelings about attending Edgewood College, three days ago, I learned of my father’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Since it was detected early, the doctors expect it will be at least five years before he begins experiencing any of the more serious symptoms. Hopefully longer, if he responds well to their treatment plan and medications.

The prospect of watching my jovial father slowly lose his mind is both devastating and terrifying. His diagnosis means the couple of decades of relative freedom I expected to have as the back-up are now gone.

My days as a princess now have a set expiration date.

The countdown to becoming a queen has begun.

My father’s diagnosis prompted a rapid reshuffling of the future plans for the monarchy. Now, when I finish university in four years, as my fellow classmates decide on future careers and celebrate the end of academia, I will be preparing to rule the country they all reside in before my father’s condition becomes public knowledge.