Three days after I gave birth to twins, my husband showed up with his mistress and divorce papers. “Take $3 million and sign it. I only want the kids.” I signed… and disappeared that night. By morning, he realized something was terribly wrong.

A decade ago, when Mitchell Construction was just Daniel, a beat-up Ford F-150, and a guy named Rick, we used to sit at our tiny kitchen table and map out our empire. One more good year, Carrie, and we’ll finally take that ski trip. I believed every word. I managed the ugly, unglamorous machinery of the business—invoices, permits, tax deadlines, workers continue reading …