The first two years I lived in Washington, I was "the wife." My husband was an editor at the Washington Post, but my career lottery number had yet to come up. Tagging along in the modest swirl of D.C. cocktail parties, I was the half of the couple who watched people's gaze drift during conversation as they searched the room for someone a little more plugged in. No one remembered my name or asked for my card or paid for my lunch. I was unexpensable. My husband twice received handsome engraved invitations to presidential dinners. For those events and many others,...
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