The author on the day of her bridal shower in May 2022 in Brooklyn, New York.

I grew up with an almost painful awareness of money – how little my family had, how hard it was to come by, and how much having it mattered. The lack of money defined my entire childhood and “want” was counterbalanced with “can’t” so often I stopped wanting altogether.

I learned to stretch one lunch meal into two – eating just enough to quell hunger, but never enough to be satiated.

I learned to not reach for the toys and clothes other kids brought and wore to school, if just to avoid the disappointment in my parents’ eyes when they told me no.

I learned that even if I couldn’t legally work until 14, a local business would let me anyway if it meant paying me half the minimum wage.

Most importantly, I learned to prioritise and save what little earnings I had and make it last a year by making a beeline to the clearance rack in a department store, ordering the cheapest appetiser on the menu when out with friends, and pretending to be younger than I was to pay cheaper fares at the movies.

The little money my family had covered the bare necessities – the roof over our heads, the ingredients for our batch-made meals, the prep courses for specialised public school programs that would hopefully one day provide us with access to a stronger financial future.

My parents were Soviet emigres who both worked full time and ran side hustles in their limited free time to afford even our substandard quality of life. They never thought of their incomes as their own – everything they made was pooled together for the good of the family, which meant personal purchases were considered indulgences and usually clouded with guilt on the rare occasions they were made.

There is a limited notion of the “self” when your family is barely scraping by – self-care, self-protection, and personal interest take a back seat to the group’s survival. Spending any money on yourself can feel like betraying the family.

To this day, my parents still won’t splurge on vacations. They eat generic corn flakes, use coupons for McDonald’s, and collect sugar packets and napkins from coffee shops and restaurants. They may no longer be living below the poverty line, but I know they will always think of themselves as poor – it’s like a weight they put down long ago but that continues to drag them down.

As I grew up – watching their account balance increase while they struggled to outgrow the impoverished mindset they held for decades – I knew it was my obligation, as their first-generation daughter, to protect my financial interests while having a healthier and more honest relationship with money than the one I grew up with.

Years later, in the thick of my engagement, as my fiance and I discussed our honeymoon details and our plans for the faraway future, he nudged me gently toward a more timely objective.

“So, did your lawyer give you the green light on the prenup yet?” he asked.

She had, after spending no more than an hour reviewing the paperwork and finding it to be completely fair and in accordance with all the terms we’d discussed as we drafted it together.

I left her office feeling good about crossing another item off our wedding to-do list. We had agreed that if we divorced, we would evenly split everything we made in the marriage. Everything we entered into the marriage with (both assets and liabilities) or stood to........

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