That account existed because of my mother, though she had forgotten she was the reason.

When Brandon and I were newly married, Rosalind had suggested — warmly, reasonably, in the tone of a woman offering wisdom — that Brandon should manage all of our banking, so that there would be no secrets between spouses.

It had sounded, at the time, almost romantic.

Complete transparency.

Nothing hidden.

And I had very nearly agreed to fold every account I had into his.

It was my mother who pulled me aside, before I could.