Confessions of an Entrepreneur's Wife

Bill started getting ink, and he and I joked about our little publicity competition. I was being covered for my latest book and for helping start a local nonprofit literary group. My face showed up more in the hometown press and on TV, but he and the product got bigger national newspaper and magazine attention. Underneath the glitter, however, issues were beginning to surface.

First was the departure of Bill's partner. He had come from a big-company background, and Bill quickly became frustrated with Wayne's reluctance to make snap decisions and push distributors and vendors for better terms. To me, the problem looked easy to solve. As we settled into bed at night I would ask Bill if things had gotten better at the office. "No," he would say, and he'd roll over and give me his back. He didn't want to talk about it. "Well," I'd say, "I don't see what the problem is. Just ask him to go in the best interests of the company. He wants his shares to make money just like you do." I didn't fully understand why Bill waffled. I didn't appreciate how difficult it was for him to ditch the man who had invented the product and given him the opportunity.

At the beginning of 2003 Bill finally asked Wayne to resign. As CEO, Bill was Wayne's boss, and so Wayne left. When Bill came home and told me, his face was tight and pinched. "I don't know if it was the right thing to do or not," he said. "So, he didn't take it well?" I asked. "No, and I can't blame the guy," Bill said. I finally understood how complex the situation had been, and I thought it might help him to unload. "You feel okay about it?" I asked. "Yeah, it's fine," he said, and he turned to go upstairs.

The truth was he had little time for analysis. As the head of sales and marketing, CEO, president, and chairman of the board, as well as the person charged with finding capital, he had a staggering workload. Like a shark, he needed to push relentlessly forward to survive.

Bill's travel schedule was unpredictable. He bounced from fundraising pitches to sales calls all over North America. When he was home (a few days every other week) he was exhausted and burned out. He had no desire to socialize. I packed away the party dresses and started turning down invitations.

I quit asking him how things were going at work because his answers always focused on problems. He was the No. 1 problem-solving guy, and when you're a hammer, everything around you looks like a nail. It scared me that from Bill's perspective the whole thing was so often about to collapse.

He was also beginning to question whether it was even worth it. With each new round of financing he had diluted his shares. He and Wayne held shares jointly in an S corporation. (They shared a single vote to control their combined shares, which meant the tension between them never diminished.) In the first round they kept 60 percent, but by 2004 they were down to less than 30 percent. I reminded Bill of a conversation I once had with a CEO I was interviewing. "How could you give up so much equity?" I asked. "Well," the CEO said, "it's better to have 1 percent of 10 million than 100 percent of nothing." I could see that Bill's hard work was paying off. I didn't want him to give up yet.

When the company received a local business award, I was thrilled. I thought it would be a chance for Bill to slow down and realize that he had created a big success. For one night he--we--could revel in his accomplishments and accept a few accolades. I got a sitter and picked out my dress, but the day before the party Bill canceled. He had to be in Chicago to meet with a potential investor. I was disappointed, but by now I was used to it.

Where's Daddy?

By this point I was raising Lily alone, going solo to her concerts and swim meets. I was making the decisions about her education, health, and social life with little input from her father. One night she and I were sitting at the dinner table and the meal was over before I realized that I had forgotten to tell her that Daddy was out of town. She had quit asking where he was.

In the spring of 2003 Lily's school decided to send a few teachers to Spain for a month of language immersion at summer school. Lily loved Spanish, and at one point I had been fluent. I found myself wishing we could do something similar. I brought it up casually with Bill, figuring he would say I was crazy. Secretly I was hoping he would say, "Great, let's all go!" Instead, he looked relieved. "I'm going to be really busy this summer," he said. "It's probably best if you guys are out of here." So Lily and I spent July in Mexico, taking classes in the morning and swimming each afternoon. Bill was home three days that month.

I worried about his health. He was gaining weight and had started smoking. I also worried about his moodiness. The man I married 15 years earlier had been a social powerhouse, cracking jokes and cooking gourmet meals for large dinner parties. This new Bill was a short-tempered monosyllabic hermit. When I did occasionally drag him to a party full of my friends, I was shocked at how many he had never even met.

I had originally thought of this as his company, his work, his life. But now Lily and I were also paying a price. With Bill rarely home, I soon lost the time and energy to focus on my work. Left with no profession, and essentially no husband, I became frustrated and resentful. I found myself thinking that it might be easier if Lily and I lived alone, with no illusions about being able to depend on Bill. Fortunately we found a good therapist and held our marriage together, but it became clear that Bill just didn't have the mental or physical energy to maintain much of a personal relationship. I knew he wanted me to be happy, but I couldn't stop picking fights about his lack of time at home. I wanted him to succeed, but I hadn't expected the company to so deeply invade our personal lives.

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