My husband said I made dinner “awkward” just because I told his mother to stop counting every dollar of my paycheck. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “If your mother makes one more comment about my money, I’m done smiling through it. I’ll make the boundary clear myself — and make sure she understands that my money was never hers to claim.”

Respectable people, I had learned, could still take what was not theirs. She asked polite questions with sharp edges. “So, Elena,” she said as she passed me a dish of green beans that had been cooked until they surrendered.

“Are bonuses still unpredictable?”

Her tone was casual, almost fond. Her eyes flicked to my purse hanging on the back of my chair. “Must be stressful,” she continued, “not knowing how much extra money you really have.”

I answered calmly.

I always did. I said my job was stable. I said bonus structures changed from year to year.

I said I was grateful for steady work. I said nothing about how my paycheck had made our lives comfortable. Nothing about how the sedan parked downstairs, the one Marina called “such a sensible choice,” had been paid mostly from my account.