The SUV slowed as we approached an elaborately scrolled iron gate centered in a brick wall that went on forever on both sides of us, and Mr. Albright looked over at me from his spot in the driver’s seat. He was in his forties, balding, and judging by the puffiness around his eyes, could have used a good night’s sleep. His gray suit jacket was draped over the seat between us, and his sleeves were rolled up.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “It’s a new beginning for you.”

What was I supposed to say, that I wasn’t ready? I nodded and tried to smile and went back to looking out the window.

Mr. Albright was the Sutton family’s business manager, which meant (he’d told me) that he handled just about everything for them, because when you had that much money, everything was business. He described them as if they were dolls in a collection, with an odd, patronizing note in his voice. But at the same time, he never missed a chance to say that looking out for their family was basically the purpose of his life.

To his credit, despite this great sense of combined ownership and deference he felt toward the Suttons, my going there didn’t seem to worry him. In fact, he acted like it was natural, even charming, that they should take me in.

To me, it seemed kind of random and strange, but what do I know about how super-rich people think?

Here’s what I did know: John Sutton, the patriarch of the family, had gone to law school at Northwestern with my father twenty years ago. One day, they both happened to be swimming laps in the college pool, and John, who hadn’t been feeling well, slipped into unconsciousness in the water. My dad crossed the two lanes between them, pulled him out of the pool, and performed CPR.

“Thus saving his life,” Mr. Albright had said in the garage office at Palmer House, interlacing his fingers as if he were offering a silent prayer of thanks. “And so, when the news reached Mr. Sutton that your family had encountered this great tragedy, he felt compelled to reciprocate in any way he could.”

Your family had encountered this great tragedy. He said the words so impersonally, as if the deaths of my parents and sisters were footnotes in a legal document. Then again, what were his alternatives? What did I want him to do, break down and cry about it?

The iron gates began to open for us. Not wanting to seem overly awestruck, I tried not to crane my neck to see the house. I may have spent six weeks brushing my teeth with someone else’s hair, but I had a smidgen of pride left.