Before she died, my mother established a college fund for me. It was meant to make education a little simpler, although it wasn’t very big. However, my stepmother essentially took charge of the money after my dad got married again.
About $5,000 would mysteriously disappear from that account every year around Christmas, whether it was for gifts, decorations, vacations, or anything else. I asked. I disagreed. I pleaded with my father to halt it. However, he consistently dismissed me by saying, “We’ll replace it later,” or “It’s family money.”
They didn’t. Rather, the college fund was totally destroyed when they went bankrupt while I was still in school.
So I took the necessary action. To complete my education, I held three jobs. I was always striving to keep my head above water, so I missed out on everything—sleep, weekends, holidays, enjoyment, and even simple peace of mind. I eventually stopped making contact, not because I wanted to create a scene, but rather because I needed the distance to cope with the bitterness that was gnawing at me.
Years went by. At last, I’ve reached a secure position—not rich, but decent.
Then my dad unexpectedly asked me for forty thousand dollars not long ago. He referred to it as a “loan,” but he refused to specify its purpose. It was simultaneously sneaky and manipulative.
No, I replied. calmly. No shouting, no arguing—just no.
That was the end of it, I thought.
However, I practically froze when I entered my front door the following day. My stepmother and father were standing there. I then learned that they had coerced my aunt into providing them with my address.
My dad yelled, “You’re still hung up on that college fund thing?,” before I could even comprehend what was going on. For eighteen years, we provided for your food and housing!
He then started talking about how basic necessities like food, clothing, and shelter were “worth way more” than the money they stole. He advised me to “help my family,” “grow up,” and “stop living in the past.”
I didn’t even return the scream. I simply closed the door after telling them to go.
After that, I spent over an hour sitting on the floor, feeling like a twelve-year-old once more.
I’m spiraling right now. I feel totally justified in part. Because he is, in fact, my father, another part of me is sick with remorse.
I keep playing it back: Was it wrong of me to refuse to give them money and break off communication once more? Is this as crazy as it seems, or should I have handled it differently?
