I’ve been thinking lately about one of my relatives, now of blessed memory. This woman was gracious and kind. Her clothes and makeup were always impeccable; her home was well decorated and welcoming. When you went over for tea, the cups would be porcelain, and the utensils would be sterling silver. The sweetener would come in white paper packets, embossed with the Golden Arches, most likely pilfered from the nearby McDonald’s where she and her girls would go for coffee, and woe betide the server who failed to offer them the senior discount.

This was a woman who could afford to buy a bag of sugar. But she wouldn’t dream of it. Maybe it was Depression-era thrift, or maybe it was the tiny thrill of a tiny theft, the minute dopamine rush you get when you do something that isn’t exactly stealing but isn’t entirely legitimate either.

Her quirk was far from unique. We’ve all seen (or maybe even carried) pocketbooks full of stolen Sweet’N Low or used a guest bathroom where the towels were Egyptian cotton, the countertops were Carrara marble and the soap was a tiny rectangle from a Holiday Inn Express.

The rich are different. Some of them drop six figures to get their children into a college where they didn’t earn a spot.