There was once a time when the most critical thing you could say about Tiffany Trump is that her dad, Donald Trump, didn’t appear to dote on his only child from his second marriage. It’s a storyline that continued through her 27th birthday last Tuesday, as she celebrated in Miami clubs while Twitter watchers waited to see if Trump would wish her a happy birthday. (He didn’t, but did wish the U.S. Navy one). Others pointed out that her half-sister Ivanka Trump tagged the wrong Tiffany in a birthday post.
Tiffany is forever the Jan and never the Marcia, but she always seemed to blithely forge her own path as rich kid of a certain milieu. She split her time between Calabasas, California, and the Upper East Side, traveled the world with whomever she was dating at the time, and had her finger on the pulse of the best photo-retouching apps. She graduated from Georgetown Law this year; one could envision a future where she stood on her own, managing not to get sucked into the churn of family drama. She tended to stay above it all, or at least out of the way.
But, as we learn over and over again, these people are birds of a feather. They molt as one. She is not some sentient Hervé Léger dress on the