I wanted to tell Daniel right away. I pictured us in our kitchen, with its peeling cabinet doors and slanted silverware drawer. I would say we could repair the roof and replace the drafty windows without blinking. I would say we could help his sister in Chicago finish grad school without loans. I would say, in a voice I hadn’t used in a long time, that we were safe.

But I had a second call to make. For the last year, I had stepped back from the daily grind at my company, Whitaker & Ren. People called me a founder; my title was CEO. It meant contract redlines at midnight and payroll at dawn.