Beth and I don’t talk about the differences in how our lives are led and how our kids are being raised. Still, it must rankle her that her parents have had to help us out of a few tough times, just as it rankles me that they bring her and her family dinner every Friday night and take them on major Costco runs for household essentials. What I wouldn’t do for a lifetime supply of toilet paper! So much of this unspoken battle is about values—I think of it as Go-Gurt versus Stonyfield Organic—that I wonder what my feelings about Beth would be if our paychecks were equal. Would I enjoy her house without adding up its costs, like some third world treasury secretary visiting the White House? Would it cease to bother me that she sends my kids the cheapest gifts—falling apart pajamas, one year—while I send hers books? I suspect I’ll never know. We’re in our forties now and the financial cards are soundly stacked in her favor.
I do know this. One day I’ll scrimp and save to get my kids to Paris. I’ll fret over it, worrying about college tuition for months in advance. But then we’ll get there; we’ll eat crèpes from street vendors, and go see the Picassos and the Monets. My daughter will use her babysitting money to buy a cheap beret, which she’ll wear for months to come, and my son will skateboard over the Pont de Neuf. We’ll send postcards to Beth and her sons, telling them of our adventures. One evening, we’ll sit in the Square du Vert-Galant and watch the sunset on the river, and we’ll be rich, rich as all the world.
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