My name is Connie Lawrence, and I am sixty-eight years old. Before I was the mother of a billionaire, before my face was splashed across every gossip website in the world, I was the wife of a coal miner. My husband, Thomas, was a man carved from the same Appalachian Mountains that eventually claimed him. He had a laugh that could shake the dust from the rafters and hands so calloused they felt like warm stones in mine.