Thirty years ago, I was born in Sammamish, Washington — one of the richest cities in the country. Living alongside wealth, I learned it’s relative. Our one-story rambler with rust-colored carpets was not as fancy as a lot of neighboring big houses, but it was nicer than many houses in other parts of the region. My parents got it in 1990 as a foreclosure, which meant there was little down payment; neither of them had inherited wealth to start off with. We had two cars, went on skiing vacations and took private piano lessons.
My sisters and I never had an allowance like many Sammamish kids, but my mom
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