For most of my life, my family measured success in houses, money, and status. My father, Nathaniel, had learned that lesson from Grandma Rose and passed it down to me without ever questioning it. I once had an art scholarship, but I gave it up because my father insisted that a Harrington did not throw away a “proper” future for painting. Years later, after finally walking away from a life that was making me miserable, I rented a tiny Brooklyn apartment and turned half of it into a studio. I began teaching art to children whose families could not afford lessons. It was not impressive by my family’s standards, but it was mine.

Then, at a ballroom celebration filled with nearly two hundred relatives and guests, my father publicly called me a failure. I lowered my eyes, expecting everyone to remain silent as they always had. Instead, Grandma Rose slowly reached for the microphone.