When I married Daniel Hartwell at twenty-six, she hugged me at the reception and murmured, “You always end up on your feet, don’t you?”
It sounded kind.
It wasn’t.
At the time, Daniel wasn’t worth four hundred million dollars.
He was a gifted software engineer with relentless focus and an unyielding streak. He worked in a rented office with exposed brick walls and secondhand desks. I sat through investor meetings where no one really listened. I watched his first product fail. We ate takeout on the floor because buying furniture felt irresponsible.
I loved him when his suits came from clearance racks.
Vanessa came around more often years later—after his company went public and the headlines started using numbers that felt unreal.
Continue on the next page:
