My husband, Ryan, always loved looking rich.
Not being rich. Looking rich.
There was a difference, and after eight years of marriage, I knew it better than anyone.
He liked designer watches that made people glance at his wrist.
He liked luxury drinks with names I could never pronounce. He liked five-star restaurants where the servers wore gloves, and the menus looked more expensive than our weekly groceries.
Meanwhile, I knew exactly how much was in our checking account. I knew which bills could wait three days and which ones could not. I knew how to stretch a rotisserie chicken into three meals. I knew how to smile when Lily asked why Mommy was eating toast for dinner again.