I opened the bottom drawer of a steel filing cabinet and pulled out a thick blue folder that was labeled with a name I had invented years ago. The tab read “Bartholomew Family Trust,” and it contained the legal documents that governed my family’s lives.
I sat at my desk and looked at my signature on the final page of the trust agreement. Seven years ago, I had sat in a quiet office while the rain tapped against the glass and I signed away a portion of my soul for the sake of people who did not like me.
I was twenty-nine years old when I sold my cybersecurity firm for a sum of money that felt like a clerical error. I had spent years living on cold coffee and the adrenaline of a startup founder who was terrified of failing.
When the deal finally closed, I found myself with more wealth than my younger self could have ever imagined in her wildest dreams. The silence that followed the sale was not peaceful because I knew that money would change everything with my family.