Chapter 9 - The house Vanessa could afford
The phrase wretched paupers became its own wound.
Not because it was accurate.
Because Caleb believed it might be.
After the party he began noticing prices.
“Is this expensive?”
“Can we afford pizza?”
“Do you have eight thousand dollars?”
“Is Aunt Vanessa richer than us?”
At six, those questions should not have mattered.
I earned $71,000 a year as an office manager for a regional engineering firm.
After taxes, health insurance, retirement, rent, childcare, food, car, and ordinary life, money was not loose.
But we were okay.
Eric paid child support under our divorce agreement.
About $920 monthly.
He also split certain medical and activity expenses.
We had an emergency fund.
No luxury.
No crisis.
I explained:
“Some people have more money than us. Some have less.”
“Are we poor?”
“No.”
“Is poor bad?”
“No.”
“Then why did Aunt Vanessa say it mean?”
There.
I answered:
“Because she wanted to hurt my feelings.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because adults can be silly about money.”
He accepted that better than I did.
The truth?
Vanessa’s wealth had always made me defensive.
I hated feeling evaluated.
Sometimes I overperformed independence.
Refused help I could have accepted.
When Mom offered to pay for Caleb’s summer camp, I said no because Vanessa had just given Mom a new dishwasher.
Ridiculous.
No one had made camp a competition except me.
Class anxiety works both directions.
Vanessa weaponized wealth.
May you like
I weaponized self-sufficiency.
Neither helped Caleb.
