When I got married nine years ago [1], I had every intention of merging my life and my husband's as completely as any independent woman [2] can and should. Sure, we would maintain our own hobbies and interests, but I wanted our marriage to last forever [3], and to me, that meant no secrets, full disclosure, and total trust.
I had witnessed both my grandparents' 60-plus-year marriage and my parents' 35-plus-year one by the time we walked down the aisle at 31, and I knew that I wanted a partnership as strong as those relationships — and creating that would take a lot of work [4]. Step one: breaking down the walls I'd been building over the course of three decades and many a lesser romance. I would have to let him in to every part of my life, with one notable exception: my bank account.
I know, I know, it's going to sound like a double standard — because you better bet that I made sure my husband added me to his bank account within a couple of weeks of our "I dos." That became our joint account [6], and I transferred the majority of my money into it and made sure that my paychecks were directly deposited there. But, on the advice of my megafeminist mom and grandma, I didn't close my separate account.
"A woman needs her own money," they told me, and while the notion felt a bit antiquated, part of it also rang true, especially considering that my husband and I had already discussed that I wouldn't work as much after we had kids and, surprise, surprise, we came home from our honeymoon expecting our first one [7]. After she was born, I went from full- to part-time work. Then, when her brother was born three years later, I cut back even more, becoming a freelancer. Obviously, my salary was cut dramatically, too.
Holding on to my bank account helped me maintain a sense of self in a life dominated by nappy changes and sleep deprivation.
In just a few years, I'd gone from having an exciting, growing career (one that involved lots of cute outfits and many a pair of high heels) to spending most days in yoga pants and nursing-friendly tops [8] and relying on my husband's income for everything. It was like moving to a foreign country with no return ticket, and my little bank account became a lifeline to my former self, a person who liked fancy skincare products [9] and a new footwear wardrobe for every season and didn't want her husband to question every Sephora or Nordstrom purchase [10] as necessary or not. Of course, they weren't necessary, but then again, maybe they were. Call me materialistic, but holding on to these items helped me maintain a sense of self in a life dominated by nappy changes and sleep deprivation and a body I no longer recognised.
My kids got older [11] and I eventually had time to work and earn more. My husband began questioning whether my "little" account — which I disclosed had grown since I'd started depositing my freelance checks (first paltry, then not so much) — was unhealthy for our relationship [12]. He couldn't argue with my response. Besides the current debate we were having about the very existence of my separate account, when was the last time we'd really argued about money? I asked him. The answer: pretty much never. Our finances were in good shape. We had plenty of money in our retirement account, and we'd consciously purchased an affordable home instead of stretching our budget.
I continued with the crux of my argument: did he think we would be more likely to fight about money [13] if he saw the price of every pair of jeans or $9 pressed juice I purchased on our joint credit card? Or was it better for those items to come out of my own account, which could also fund the occasional family expense [14], like flights or home improvements? For our individual personalities and our relationship, the answers were definitely yes and yes.
My separate account wouldn't work if my husband and I didn't trust each other [15] so fully and communicate with each other so well, but for the sake of my wardrobe and my anti-ageing regimen, I'm so glad we do and it does.