From Lisa Brennan-Jobs’ Small Fry, as excerpted in Vanity Fair ($):
“I have a secret,” I said to my new friends at school. I whispered it so that they would see I was reluctant to mention it. The key, I felt, was to underplay. “My father is Steve Jobs.”
“Who’s that?” one asked.
“He’s famous,” I said. “He invented the personal computer. He lives in a mansion and drives a Porsche convertible. He buys a new one every time it gets a scratch.”
The story had a film of unreality to it as I said it, even to my own ears. I hadn’t hung out with him that much, only a few skates and visits. I didn’t have the clothes or the bike someone with a father like this would have.
“He even named a computer after me,” I said to them.
“What computer?” a girl asked.
“The Lisa,” I said.
“A computer called the Lisa?” she said. “I never heard of it.”
“It was ahead of its time.” I used my mother’s phrase, although I wasn’t sure why it was ahead. I brought it up when I felt I needed to, waited as long as I could and then let it burst forth. I don’t remember feeling at a disadvantage with my friends who had fathers, only that there was at my fingertips another magical identity, an extra thing that started to itch and tingle when I felt small, and it was like pressure building inside me, and then I had to find a way to say it.
My take: This rings true to me. I don’t know why Jobs’ widow and sister felt obliged to push back.