The 18 Year Old Bride

1.

O N E

Here's something nobody tells rich people: They die, too.

There's this sense, you know, this misconception that wealthy people are invincible. Like when Fortune 500 execs get cancer or something equally awful, they think they can coerce a massive, aggressive, bumpy tumor straight out of their body by throwing bundles of cash at it. As if you can swipe a black American Express card through your armpit, and-ch-ching!-you've just paid off the Grim Reaper, you've gloriously extended your life of leisure...and you've been given a bump in your Air Miles account to boot.

Idiotic.

Yet strangely common thinking among the wealthy.

In lovely, Manhattan, New York-the most expensive and commercial place in America and my home up until, oh, three years ago-this notion that rich people are invincible is so prevalent, people go into a state of absolute shock when someone in fancy 14879 zip code gets sick. Or crashes their Bentley. Or accidentally inhales Beluga caviar (which happens way more often than you'd think). I see it every day.

Scratch that. I saw it every day.
I saw it before my dad decided to end his own life just because he could no longer lead the luxurious life he was born into, leaving my mother and I to move to Greenwich village. Go bankrupt and nothing is worth living anymore. In that case, I should have killed myself too.

I saw those delusional richies on a regular basis, back when I would sit at the top of the stairs with my ginger latte in one hand, phone in the other, with the rest of my friends and gave shit to others who can only dream of becoming my friend but never could as they passed through the halls of Mayfield High- one of the most prestigious high schools in all of Manhattan. Yes, I was that girl. That bitch of the school. Every girl wanted to be me and every guy wanted to be with me. I was one of those delusional richies. I used to think money was everything. I still kind of do.

I'm so angry. Angry at everything and everyone. Angry at this world. There is no scale invented to measure my level of anger.

My parents were those close minded people. Those if this was not in the guide book or taught to us at school, then this does not exist people. My mother was a small town girl from the wilds of Idaho. Her dream was to become a super model. As soon as she graduated from high school, she ran away from home with the money her parents had saved for her college tuition. She hitchhiked all the way to New York, the Big Apple, to make her dreams come true even though they disapproved of her career choice. That's a very ballsy move for a small town girl if you ask me.

To think, my mother was only my age when she met my father at one of those fashion shows. It was love at first sight, she said. Three years later, they got married and had me. Some love story. My father spent the rest of their married life cheating on her with anyone he could get his hands on. My mother, being the ignorant woman that she is, never knew about this and I didn't have the heart to tell her even after my father's death. My mother is naïve and old fashioned. I don't know what will come of it if I do tell her. According to her, Joseph Doyle was the love of her life and they had a blissful nineteen lovely years together.

Joseph Doyle- I don't know where to begin with him. My father was born rich. He was one of those people born suckling on a platinum spoon. He was a good father, if not a good husband or a good man. His idea of raising a daughter was to give her money to shut her up. Was it her birthday? Buy her that new phone she has been asking for. Did she fail in classes? Pay the school to pass her. Did she catch you in bed with your secretary? Give her money and send her on a summer vacation to Paris with her best friend without a chaperone. I was fourteen when that happened. Rich people are not nice. I know that.