Page 146 of Crazy Thing
Instead of the lavish six-figure designer shopping spreesthat most billionaire wives indulge in, Ziggy likes to spend our money organizing food drives, charity events and fundraisers to support those in need. I could never get mad at that.
And how could I even complain when my net worth has nearly doubled in the seven years that we’ve been together?!
My wife says my increased wealth has something to do with those full moon candles that she burns every month. I say it’s because she and I are an unstoppable force together.
She has her strengths. I have mine. And when we merge those strengths together, we’re a veritable powerhouse.
Ziggy Brighton has made me better in every way. And the moment I turn onto my driveway, I’m reminded of just how beautiful she’s made my life.
In the front yard, I see Ziggy. She’s wearing one of her trademark flowy peasant dresses, sitting on a blanket in the grass with our four daughters climbing all over her. Laughter rings out in the air as the girls braid and twist and adorn their mother’s lilac hair with flowers.
My chest squeezes so hard I need to take a second to catch my breath. Ziggy in the garden, nurturing our kids—it’s utopia for me.
How the hell did I get so lucky?
I grab my phone and snap a picture of the scene. My Ziggy Stash grows every day. Over the years, it has expanded to include precious pictures of the family we’ve created together.
When my children spot my car, they begin waving and yelling for me. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” The three eldest sing as they run barefoot up the driveway in my direction.
I cut the engine in the spot right behind Lady Tourmaline. I step out of my sedan and the girls jump into my arms.They knock me on my back and I lay sprawled out in the driveway in my expensive business suit.
Our daughters crawl all over me, telling me about the picnic they had and the painting they did and the jam they made with their mother this morning.
Ziggy appears in my line of vision with our eight-month-old propped on her hip, beaming down at me.
“Girls! Give your dad some breathing room. He had a long few days away on his business trip.” The girls scamper off, giggling, and Ziggy extends a hand to me. “Hey, Money Man.”
Locking my fingers with hers, I rise to my feet. “Hey yourself, beautiful.” I press a soft kiss to her lips before scooping the baby out of her arms. “How was your day?”
She glances over to where our oldest is now attempting to climb inside the water fountain. “Amethyst sweetie, get away from there. You’re playing too close to the edge.” Looping her arm around my back, Ziggy returns her full attention to me. “Busy. As always,” she says with a laugh.
She tells me about how she visited her Divine Treasures location she opened on the ground floor of my office building here in Starlight Falls. Then she had a phone call with the manager of her Honey Hill shop. And she’s also in the middle of planning a children’s yoga workshop at Isla’s meditation center in Reyfield. She even found time to answer some business emails for the hockey team and pick out the pumpkins we’ll be carving for Halloween.
Our life keeps us busy, but we have lots of help and we make it a priority to leave frequent blocks in our schedule dedicated to family time. Because there’s no point in having billions in the bank if we can’t carve out time for the people we love.
“How wasyourday?” Ziggy asks me.
“The accountant said ‘somebody’ made another huge withdrawal from one of your investment accounts.” I side-eye her.
I set up an expansive stock portfolio in her name when we first got married just over five years ago. I’ve been trying to get her to take it seriously. But I’ve been failing miserably so far.
Ziggy flinches. “Oops! I was meaning to talk to you about that.”
I tilt my head, watching her sternly.
Dandelion—Danny, for short—runs up and grabs onto my leg. “Daddy, your aura’s turning red! Have you been meditating? Momma says meditating keeps your aura from turning red,” the five-year-old reminds me.
Right then, Emerald toddles over, offering me a gummy grin. “Coo-kie, Dada?”
With a chuckle, I accept the seaweed oatmeal cookie from the two-year-old’s sticky paw. “Thank you, Emmy. Now, go play, both of you.”
They run off and I return my attention to their mother. “I’m sorry, babe,” Ziggy is pleading while trying to suppress a giggle. “I just really wanted to make an itty bitty donation to Meghan’s pet adoption foundation and a few others in the area.”
“Itty bitty?” I laugh ironically, shoving the cookie in my mouth.
A part of me wants to scold her. To tell her that she can’t go around donating to every single charity she comes across. But that’s simply not the truth.
My wife is a billionaire with a huge heart. She can donate to any charity she pleases and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
