When my daughter got married, I kept quiet about the $33 million I inherited from my late husband. A few days later, my daughter’s husband came.

The morning had started with such optimism. I’d chosen my outfit with the precision of a chess master—modest gray dress that whispered harmless widow, paired with my grandmother’s pearls for just enough dignity to avoid looking pitiful. My hair was done at Martha’s salon. Nothing too fancy, just respectable enough for my daughter’s wedding.

“Mom, you look acceptable,” Emma said when I arrived, already distracted by whatever crisis the wedding coordinator was having.

Acceptable—like a participation trophy in human form.