The red envelope economy

This Tet was my first on the other side of the red envelope. For twenty-five years I was the one wishing my grandparents a long life and holding out my hands. This year I'm working in Hanoi on a proper salary, and my mum made it clear that now it's my turn to give.

I started with a list: nieces and nephews, my cousins' kids, the neighbours' children, my grandparents and two great-aunts. By the time I'd finished, there were twenty-three names on it. Then I went to the bank for crisp new notes. Apparently everyone else in the city had the same idea, because the queue went out of the door.

The hardest part wasn't the money. It was deciding how much to give. The amount is supposed to be symbolic, but people compare, whether they admit it or not. Give too little and you look mean. Give too much and you set a standard that the rest of the family feels they have to match. My aunt helpfully told me exactly what my cousins gave last year, which only made me more nervous.

I also remembered what happened to my own lucky money. Like most kids, I handed it to my mum to keep it safe, and like most kids, I never saw it again. We laugh about it now. So I told my eight-year-old nephew he could keep his envelope and choose what to buy. He spent it all on toy cars in two days. The money burned a hole in his pocket, but I think he learned something.

About a third of my envelopes were digital. My cousin in Da Nang and my uncle's family in Germany got a bank transfer with a cartoon red envelope on the screen. It's practical, but it felt a bit cold. My grandmother refused to accept one. She wants to see your face when you wish her a long life, she said, not a picture of a cat.

In the end I spent more than I'd planned. Next year I'll start putting money aside in October, like my colleagues do. My grandmother's envelope was the smallest one I gave, but she held it as if it was the best present she'd had all year.