George Conway, she writes, disappointed her by “skipping the kinds of confidential, civil conversations spouses typically have when one has a change of heart or both agree to disagree about something big.”
“What are you doing, George?” I asked him plainly and calmly. I got the same answer every time … “You work for a madman,” George would say in a loud, sinister voice …
“Like everything George did during this time,” Conway continues, “I found out about it after it happened or as it was happening. It was sneaky, almost sinister. Why not own it, share it, sneer in my face with a copy of tomorrow’s Washington Post op-ed or next week’s Lincoln Project ad?”
Night after night, I would come home from a busy day at work … While I was minding dishes, dogs, laundry, managing adolescent dramas and traumas, George would be just steps away from me, tucked away in his home office, plotting against my boss and me.