I used to say it all the time. To anyone who’d listen, and especially to him. “Money isn’t the most important thing.” I believed it with every fiber of my being. We lived a life of quiet struggles, of making do, of laughing over cheap takeout and dreaming of things we couldn’t afford. But we had love. We had each other. That was our currency. And it felt like we were rich beyond measure.
We’d walk hand-in-hand through the park, pointing out grand houses, making up silly stories about the people who lived inside. Imagine having all that, and still being miserable, I’d whisper, and he’d squeeze my hand, his eyes telling me he agreed. Our tiny apartment, with its leaky faucet and one squeaky floorboard, was our sanctuary. It was home because he was there.
Then, the letter came. Thick, official, from a law firm I’d never heard of. His side of the family, notoriously small and distant, had apparently held a secret. A very, very wealthy great-aunt. And she’d passed. Leaving him… everything.
The number on the inheritance document was astronomical. Multi-millions. I stared at it, speechless. He looked at me, a strange mix of disbelief and almost fear in his eyes. “This changes nothing,” he said, holding me tight. “We’re still us. Money isn’t the most important thing, right?” I nodded, my voice catching. Of course not.
But it did change things.
Almost overnight, our world shifted. We moved into a stunning house, the kind we used to mock from the outside. Travel became effortless, not a year-long saving plan. My old, worn-out clothes were replaced with beautiful fabrics that felt alien against my skin. The leaky faucet was a distant, almost charming, memory. For the first time, I understood the allure. The relief. The sheer, exhilarating freedom from worry.
Diane Keaton and Woody Allen in the film “Annie Hall,” circa 1977 | Source: Getty Images
I tried to hold onto my mantra, really I did. “It’s just things,” I’d tell myself, looking at the infinity pool, the designer clothes, the effortless life. But these things are nice. Really nice. Maybe I had been a little naive before. Maybe money did solve a lot of problems. Maybe it could buy a certain kind of happiness, a peace of mind I hadn’t known was missing. We had everything we’d ever dreamed of, and more. A beautiful life. A secure future.
But as our bank account swelled, something else began to shrink. Our connection.
He started working longer hours, absorbed in investments, in “managing the wealth.” He was often on the phone, hushed conversations, late nights. When he was home, he was distant. His eyes, once so full of warmth and laughter when he looked at me, seemed… veiled. He was always tired, always preoccupied.
“Is everything okay?” I’d ask, reaching for his hand. He’d pull away, gently, almost imperceptibly. “Just stressed,” he’d mumble. “A lot to handle now, you know?” And I did. I rationalized it. This was new for both of us. He was adjusting. He’s just becoming the man he was always meant to be, I’d tell myself, trying to quell the tiny, persistent voice of doubt in my head. This is just the pressure of success.
The laughter dwindled. Our simple moments, the quiet joys, evaporated. He stopped listening when I talked about my day. He forgot anniversaries, birthdays. He barely looked at me when we went out to lavish dinners with new, superficial friends. I felt like I was losing him, piece by agonizing piece. The man who had once been my entire world was becoming a stranger living in the same luxurious house.
One night, after another silent, strained dinner, I looked at him across the vast, gleaming table. “I miss us,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I miss our old life. Our old apartment. Before all this.” I waved my hand vaguely around the opulent room. “I miss you. Do you ever think… maybe this money wasn’t worth it?”
He stared at me, his face unreadable. Then, he got up, without a word, and walked out of the room. He didn’t come back to bed that night. I cried myself to sleep, a hollow ache where my heart used to be. The money, the fortune, had stolen him from me. It had corrupted everything we had. My old mantra screamed in my head: “Money isn’t the most important thing!” But now, it felt like a cruel joke. It felt like it was the only thing.
The next morning, determined to talk, to fight for us, I went looking for him. He wasn’t in his study. I found his briefcase, open, on the desk. He was usually so meticulous. A piece of paper was sticking out, half-hidden. It wasn’t a bank statement. It wasn’t a stock report.
Woody Allen and Diane Keaton walk along a street and talk in a scene from “Annie Hall,” in 1977 | Source: Getty Images
It was a medical report.
My hands trembled as I pulled it out. My breath hitched. The words swam before my eyes, then slammed into me with the force of a physical blow. The diagnosis. The prognosis. The aggressive, terminal nature of the illness. And the date. Months ago. Before the inheritance letter had even arrived.
“Settlement for wrongful exposure.”
OH MY GOD.
The inheritance wasn’t from a long-lost great-aunt. There was no great-aunt. The money wasn’t a gift. It was a payout. A legal battle fought in secret, a settlement for the final, devastating, unfair consequence of a life-shattering illness that was devouring him from the inside out.
He wasn’t distant because of the money. He wasn’t cold because he’d changed. He was pushing me away because he was dying. Because he wanted me to be comfortable, secure, after he was gone. He wanted me to have a life without financial worries, without the constant ache of our old struggles. He took that burden onto himself. He accepted the settlement, knowing he wouldn’t be around to spend it.
Every harsh word, every withdrawn glance, every time he walked away from me… it wasn’t because he’d stopped loving me. It was because he loved me so much, he couldn’t bear to let me watch him fade. He was creating distance, a buffer, so my pain wouldn’t be as profound when the inevitable happened. He was letting me believe it was the money that ruined us, so I wouldn’t be shattered by the truth of his terminal illness.
Every single day, for months, he had been living a lie for my sake.
I sank to the floor, the medical report crumpled in my hand. The vast, luxurious house felt like a tomb. The silence was deafening. He had heard me, that night. When I said I missed us, when I said the money wasn’t worth it. He had walked away, not in anger, but in unspeakable pain.
Woody Allen and Diane Keaton onstage at American Film Institute’s 45th Life Achievement Award Gala Tribute to Diane Keaton on June 8, 2017 | Source: Getty Images
“Money isn’t the most important thing.” I had been right all along. And now, I had all the money in the world. But I was losing the only thing that mattered. And there was absolutely nothing money could do to fix it.
