The Things You Cannot Shop For

My Very Dear Jim,

I'm overcome with joy at the news of your little one—congratulations to you both. I have thought about you a great deal since we last spoke. I thoroughly empathize with your anxiety about the future, for I know your immensely ambitious disposition, ever desiring to give your family the very best.

You'll allow me to tell you a story about a forty-five-year-old heiress from the 1950s, Beatrice Fairweather.

Her fortune was reckoned to be among the greatest in America. Heiress to a great commercial fortune, she owned grand houses in Washington, Palm Beach, and on Long Island, furnished with treasures gathered from the old castles and estates of Europe. She spent her summers on a private retreat surrounded by forests and lakes. She sailed aboard one of the largest private yachts in the world and travelled in her own aircraft.

To the ordinary observer, hers would appear a life entirely removed from that of the common man. Yet, upon closer inspection, it was not the case.

When guests assembled for dinner, the china carried gold upon its edges, with footmen ready behind every chair. But the meal itself was much the same as one might find in a respectable middle-class home: steak, broiled chicken, potatoes and vegetables.

The books upon her shelves were largely the same books found elsewhere. The films she watched were the same films shown in cinemas across the country. Her conversations revolved around family, friends, health, travel, and the events of the day. You see, she was only different in the things money can buy. She read, dined, entertained guests, took holidays, worried, laughed, grew old, and passed her fortune to her granddaughter, Prudence Vance.

In Ms. Fairweather's day, the show and glitter marked the difference between the opulent life and that of her middle-class countrymen. For Ms. Prudence today, however, the distinction of her kind from those of humbler cloth manifests itself in the things you cannot shop for.

She walks, exercises, eats moderately, and avoids many of the indulgences common among the rest of us. She has preserved her figure into middle age.

Books and newspapers lie strewn about her home. Conversations naturally turn to events beyond the immediate neighbourhood. Her children possess a larger vocabulary than average because they have been spoken to, read to, and expected to think. She scarcely misses PTA meetings at their school and still attends religious gatherings frequently.

She takes a particular interest in her children's upbringing. She concerns herself with their education long before they enter school. She supervises their studies. She exposes them to books, music, travel, and conversation. She regards the formation of their character as a serious responsibility.

She drinks moderately, does not smoke, keeps her appointments, plans far ahead, and chooses her companions with care. She works hard, for long hours, and seems to accomplish a remarkable amount.

She travels extensively with her family, but largely from curiosity rather than extravagance. She spends less time before a television than the average citizen, uses social media sparingly, and spends more time reading, exercising, hosting friends, or pursuing some skill. She tends attentively to her affairs.

Despite her enormous wealth, the true meaning in Ms. Prudence's life is hard-won. The textured life, she realizes, is built by hand; chosen morning after morning, exactly as you will.

If you seek a reason to begin this pursuit, look at the infant in your arms who will one day become what she observes you do—there is your reason.

Take care, my friend, and consider me ever yours very affectionately…