We once had limitless money. My husband had a hedge fund on Wall Street — his tax return in one year alone was $50 million. In New York, money is king; if you’re making a great deal of it, you’re a rock star. He would walk into restaurants and people would point in admiration.
I had previously been a journalist, but it was considered prestigious for a wife not to have to work. We owned three apartments in Manhattan — all for ourselves — and a 26-acre estate in Bedford. The Madison Avenue shops weren’t good enough, so we’d fly to Milan; the local skiing wasn’t up to it, so we had to go to Switzerland. A life of horse-riding, lunching, travelling, entertaining, charity events and passing the children off to the staff became the norm.
While I was pregnant with our third son, my husband was charged with wire fraud. He had sold stocks before the contracted time to make more money. He pleaded guilty, agreed to pay back $12 million (our entire property portfolio) and was given a four-year sentence. I knew he had been under a great deal of stress — he put his fist through a wall at one point — but I never thought it was crime-related. When he told me he was being indicted, I went into denial. I didn’t understand what it meant, and I thought, like everything else, money would solve it. I didn’t even know when he was due to go to prison.
One night, at 4 a.m., woken by noises, I found him outside our bedroom, drunk, trying to tie a hangman’s knot. He told me he had to go to prison in a few hours’ time. The next morning, I left the boys with the nanny and drove him there. I was numb, in disbelief that I was delivering the father of my children to jail. On arrival, he was told to empty his pockets and was led away. That was it.
The numbness quickly changed into anger. The properties were taken away, and I had no income. We had been spending a huge amount, so by the time we’d paid the legal bill of $10 million, all our money was gone. I had to begin again, with no breadwinner. My husband was allowed one 10-minute phone call a day, so all my rage was condensed into these few minutes. I didn’t let him get a word in. I remember being completely irrational, asking, “Why can’t you fix this?” I had become spoilt in thinking everything would be paid for.
I didn’t discuss it with anyone at all, believing, somehow, it would go away. One morning, I came to school and one of the mothers put a sympathy card into my hand, saying, “I’m so sorry, if there’s anything we can do. . .” It turned out the whole community knew. But, very quickly, people turned their backs. I was now a prison wife, and a great inconvenience. We were all bankers’ wives; it could happen to any of them, and it was much too close to home. My children and I were excommunicated: they stopped being invited to play dates and I stopped being invited to functions. A lot of people just walked straight past me. I was disappointed in myself for having believed there was more to those friendships; I hadn’t seen that they were based on money.
I had some savings, but, without the means of affording help and no surviving family, motherhood — with a newborn, a three- and a four-year-old — suddenly became a raw experience. I returned to writing to make a living. In my old life, I would go to the supermarket alone; it was a luxurious experience. But now they had to come with me, knocking things over and running around. Of course, this way is actually better, and I have a much closer relationship with them because of it. Instead of the chef doing all the cooking, they began to help me, so we’d all be in the kitchen, cooking, setting the table together and laughing.
The adjustment to a missing father was less extreme, because he hadn’t been that present in their lives to begin with. It wasn’t that difficult to cope with not being able to spend, either. We didn’t buy any more clothes — thank God I had three boys, so we could hand things down. We could no longer afford after-school activities, so instead of handing them over to chess tutors, I taught them myself.
Realizing that money wasn’t the be-all and end-all didn’t happen overnight — that process took time. I had been seduced by the material world, and it was a shock when it suddenly meant nothing. But I learned that trials in life are a great privilege; the lessons we learn are life’s holy grail. Bedford wives do not experience the trials of how to pay the rent or educate their children. As a result, they’re not growing, they’re stagnating. The rage at my husband was really at myself, for allowing myself to be a kept woman. In a sense, I’d incarcerated myself. I started meeting new and better friends — people who were into ideas, reading, painting and travelling. I was much happier in these surroundings, and I find I like to live more simply.
My husband was released after three years. I was anxious; we had both changed, and his coming back would unsettle what was now a happy life. Part of me wanted it to work, because he was the father of my children, but the marriage hadn’t been great beforehand, and I had changed dramatically. I was no longer dependent, nor wanting to be. We gave it a shot for two or three months, but I was becoming more and more withdrawn, and the children didn’t seem as happy. We decided to get divorced. There were no emotions, just clarity — I could admit the marriage was over and could finally move forward.
Karen Weinreb’s “Summer Kitchen” (St Martin’s Press) is out now. This essay from The Times of London.