She told our parents that I was unstable, paranoid, and jealous of her growing accomplishments.
My father, Richard, was even worse.
He worshipped wealthy people and social standing with an intensity that bordered on religious devotion.
He paced across our marble kitchen floor, insisting that accusing respected businessmen of theft was more shameful than any financial misconduct they might have committed.
My mother, Eleanor, cried into a silk handkerchief.
She wasn’t crying because I had lost my job.
She was crying because she believed I had embarrassed her in front of her friends.
By the end of that evening, my family had settled on its preferred version of events.
Emma was a failure.
Emma was dishonest.
Emma was an embarrassment.
And nothing I said could persuade them otherwise.
Over the following eight years, I rebuilt my life without their help.
I completed advanced degrees while working through exhausting evenings.
