When I was 10 and living in Flagstaff,
my mother – a seemingly Florence Nightingale-type who can seamlessly switch on her inner Iliza Shlesinger – opened my first bank account at a local credit union, but it never really seemed like my account until I turned 18. Sure, it had my name on it, but that was only because it was required for depositing the child support checks we received after my parents’ divorce. I never actually considered that money mine. To be fair, it really wasn’t. That money was for things like school supplies, groceries and childcare. It is never wasted on me how lucky I am in having a mom that only dipped into these funds when it was a necessity, setting the rest aside for a down payment on my first car years down the road.