I have run investment committees. I have sat across from men who wanted eleven billion dollars and told them no. I have never in my life been less able to speak than I was at that table.

“Phoebe. I need to give you the real answer and it’s going to take a while and it doesn’t make me look good.”

“That’s fine,” said my daughter. “I’ve had four days of the version where you’re a hero and it doesn’t hold up.”

So I told her.

I have told this story a great many times — to my brothers, to a therapist, to a journalist once, in a controlled way — and every single time I have said some version of: I hid who I was because I wanted him to love me for myself.

That is not a lie. It is a summary written by the defendant.