When I was 19, my father called my two younger siblings, my mother and me down to the dim low-ceilinged, windowless office in the basement of our family home in Bangor, Maine, for a solemn “family meeting” to discuss his business plans—and by consequence, our family’s fate. He had decided to exit the engineering consultancy he’d formed a few years earlier with his business partner whom he had grown to detest. “We’re going to start a new company, called The Fitch Company,” he said. He leaned back in his leather executive chair. It was important that we all understood and supported this idea.

To my ear, The Fitch Company sounded like an awkward name for an engineering outfit. But I sensed that this wasn’t really the best time to voice such concerns. After a bit of quiet reflection, my siblings and I did what any supportive family should in that situation. We held our tongues. We nodded. We hugged our father.