“He didn’t know it was you,” I said, the realization settling like lead in my stomach. “You used Blue Ridge Capital as a front.”

“It is a perfectly standard investment vehicle,” she said.

“You lied to our first investor so you could print a quote in a local newsletter,” I said.

“I am your mother, Sarah,” she said. “I am the reason you have the poise to stand in front of those venture capitalists in the first place.”

I looked down at my shoes, the leather scuffed from walking the concrete floors of our South San Francisco warehouse.

The contrast between her world of country club luncheons and my world of late-night battery testing had never felt wider.

“The board has to approve any transfer of common stock to outside entities,” I said.

“I am not an outside entity,” she said. “I am the chief advisor to the founders. That is what I told the reporter.”

“You are not our advisor,” I said.

“The article is already formatted, Sarah,” she said. “They are printing the photographs tomorrow morning.”

“Then they will be printing a lie,” I said.