December 1994. My secretary Susan interrupted my meeting. "It's the White House." I did a quick mental scan of politics in Washington and Vienna but could think of no pressing issue. Puzzled, I picked up the phone.

"Swanee, this is Hillary. I hear Lillian's having a hard time, and I want you to know I'm thinking about you."

I stared at a signed picture above my desk, which the First Lady had sent over the morning of my swearing-in. Radiant smile. Bright blue suit. Pink roses. More than anyone, she was my role model. While my charge was to represent her husband in Austria, in my heart I felt like an extension of Hillary. We were both reaching wide for change, while holding dear ones close.

I told Hillary how my life was: How in the mornings, before heading into the office, I pulled my overmedicated daughter out of bed, propping her up as she walked to our car. How she slept with her head on my shoulder in the backseat as we rode to her tutor's. How I jumped into my day, which was waiting like a racecar with engines revving. And in the evenings, how I ached as I watched her, manic, dance with her shadow on the wall, or found her cowering in a bathtub, clothed with a towel over her head to hide from demons.