I understand why people choose to take their own lives when they find themselves in financial crisis. My father, after all, died from a slow suicide, a two-year bender that began when he was laid off and ended when his body gave out in a rent-by-the-hour hotel, with $200 in his bank account. You’re in such a tailspin that you’ll do anything to make it stop. When I came clean, perched on the edge of our sofa, my husband was furious, mostly because of the lying, and there was nothing I could do to make it better. I could tell him how sorry I was, but the decision to trust me again was his to make. During that long last trimester, as I sat on my couch, pants-less, television on, and crying under the weight of the guilt and anxiety and debt and the baby crushing my organs, I realized that if this were a season of 90 Day Fiancé, I would be the villain.