I boarded my husband's private jet and his secretary was in my seat, feeding him peeled orange. His mother told me to be considerate. I stepped off. Then the crew asked whether I wanted the flight cancelled.

It was simply unpleasant in a way that was impossible to raise, because the only available sentence is people look at my husband when I talk, and there is no version of that sentence that does not sound small.

So I sent a proxy vote. Twice.

And I told myself I was being trusting. And efficient. And not making it about me.

Three separate flattering explanations for the same decision, which is always the sign.

When you need three reasons, you have none.

And it goes further, and this is the one I have had to sit with.

Four years of letting him take the credit — and I liked it.

I was not being modest. Modesty would have cost me something and it never cost me anything at all.

I liked being the only one who knew.

I want to put that as plainly as I can, because every other sentence in this account can be read as a woman explaining herself, and that one cannot.