But as the weeks passed, he remained unemployed. Surely my ex would land another high-paying gig and at least be able to provide monthly child support. The first time she offered, I thought it was sweet, but I was also irritated. 'My door is always open,' my mother said when I worried out loud about our situation. He helped when he could, but I paid our major living expenses from our joint savings, draining the account at an alarmingly rapid rate. The rent was $7,500 a month, and now that my ex wasn't working, there was no money coming in. Every window framed the Statue of Liberty, yet I felt anything but free.

By this time, my children and I were living in a luxury building, in a downtown apartment on the Hudson River. A part of me felt hopeful that I could finally build a more peaceful and authentic life for myself and our kids-on my own terms. Keeping my marriage afloat had exhausted me. It was a dire situation, but the separation also brought some relief. I was alone with a 3-year-old boy and an infant, the stitches from my cesarean section still in place. He moved out two weeks later, in December 2009. Instead, like so many others, my husband lost his job, a week after my daughter was born. I knew that having kids couldn't magically save my marriage, but my husband and I still loved each other, and I believed we'd do our best to make things work. A few years after that, I got pregnant again, this time with a girl. A year later, I got pregnant with my son. As our net worth increased, my self-worth plummeted, yet I was somehow unable to make the necessary changes in my life. Instead, I went to museums, took yoga and did volunteer work, but I was merely killing time, dying on the inside. I didn't get a job because my husband earned a million a year. Looking back, I see that I suffered from what I can only diagnose as 'affluenza.' I got massages because I felt anxious I felt anxious because I lazed away my days getting massages. But I didn't love the law, and besides, my dad was too sick for me to be working around the clock. He liked to tell me that he worked in an icebox so I could go further in life.Д®xcept I felt stuck: On the one hand, I wanted to go back to work and be financially independent, especially now that things with my husband felt rocky.

My father owned a meatpacking plant in Brooklyn. Sometimes, I'd open the truck's rear doors and inhale the inside-a-meat-locker smell-sawdust, animal fat and Freon. My childhood home, with my dad's meatpacking truck parked in the driveway, its familiar painted emblem of a calf's head gleaming, comforted me in a way my adult home didn't.

I got money now women swarm me