Early on in my first trimester, Mr T came home with a book.
My husband is no bookworm, and prefers reading to-the-point articles on the internet over burying himself in a novel. My biggest regret is that I have not been able to introduce him to the pleasures of getting lost in the written word. It is not for lack of trying, but alas, my powers over him only go so far.
To have him walk into our apartment cradling a package from Magrudy's seemed momentous. I hadn't sent him out on any book-buying errands. Is it possible he went of his own accord?
In the paper shopping bag, a distinctive black-and-purple cover stared back at me, the letters a bright yellow. Robert Kiyosaki's Rich Dad, Poor Dad is the first book I have ever seen Mr T buy for himself.
"What's this?" I asked, confused. "Did someone give you this?"
He seemed slightly insulted. "I bought it. I wanted to read it."
Read it? My husband? Whatever for?
"I think it's about what rich fathers say to their kids, so the kid ends up rich and successful too," he said, straight-faced. "I have to figure out what to say to the kid, don't I?"
"The kid" he's referring to happens to be my 20-week-old unborn child and, apparently, we have already established that said child is going to be rich.
I dismissed the event as one of my husband's occasional quirky moments, better left unanalysed.
I should have known better, especially when he began tracking our expenses on his iPhone and talking to me about "budgeting apps".
A mere two weeks after that, he left work early one day to rush to a bank he had been researching extensively in order to open a savings account.
"It's about time; we should really have an account dedicated only to savings," he preached.
A few weeks ago, the pieces finally began to fall into place when I was informed, via email, that he would be a little late coming home from work one day.
"I have a meeting with a wealth management consultant," read the email. "It's about financial planning." Before I knew it, our conversations were riddled with phrases such as "life insurance" and "long-term savings" and "investments". In the evenings, instead of joining me on our trusty couch, Mr T can usually be found at the dining table, surrounded by papers covered with a lot of numbers, calculator in hand.
Suddenly, my husband was no longer nonchalant about my tendency to keep Balenciaga, Jimmy Choo and Prada in business.
"Do you have any idea how much we're going to spend on nappies for just that one kid?" he would ask me, time and time again.
In response, I'd beg him not to worry.
"Worried? Who's worried? I'm not worried. I've been meaning to meet with a wealth management consultant for ages. I just finally have the time, that's all."
Whatever helps him sleep at night.
