In His Billionaire Shoes

I was, without question, the most aggressively frugal daughter-in-law the Archer dynasty had ever endured.

My husband commuted in a chauffeur-driven Maybach; I zipped through traffic on a battered, lime-green electric scooter with a rattling rear fender.

My husband dined on air-freighted Mediterranean sea bass and biodynamic greens; I hovered near the deli counter of the neighborhood supermarket at seven-fifty-nine every evening, poised to pounce the second the orange fifty-percent-off stickers slapped down onto the rotisserie chickens.