Bile rose and I had to run to the bathroom to be sick, to make my body keep the awful taste of coffee from settling into whatever new reality was forming inside me. I knelt on the cold tile, hands on the sink, trying to steady myself. Tears burned behind my eyes. I had never been less of a hero in my own story.

What would my mother say? My mother, who liked to fold moral certainty around the problems of her children like a warm blanket. No, I couldn’t call anyone. Not yet. Calling anyone felt like detonating a bomb. My career would be in jeopardy. Everyone at work...