At 9:00 a.m., my attorney, Richard Hail, called from New York. He cleared his throat and told me that my great-aunt Margaret Whitaker had passed away two weeks earlier. Probate had moved faster than anyone expected. She had left me one hundred million dollars.

The number hovered in the air like a bird that was either about to land or vanish. I pressed my palm to the banister I had stripped and varnished with my own hands. Aunt Margaret was the kind of New Yorker who knew the names of doormen and the hours of every museum. When I was twelve, she walked me through Central Park and made me promise to learn how money works, so money would not get to tell me who I was. Standing in my living room, I whispered, “Thank you,” though no one could hear.