Before she died, my mother had established a college fund for me. It was meant to make education a little bit easier, although it wasn’t very big. However, my stepmom essentially took over the funds after my dad remarried.
Approximately $5,000 would mysteriously disappear from that account every year around Christmas, whether it was for gifts, decorations, vacations, or anything else. I wondered about it. I disagreed. I pleaded with my father to halt it. However, he consistently dismissed me with the phrases “We’ll replace it later” or “It’s family money.”
They didn’t. Instead, the college fund was totally depleted when they went bankrupt while I was still a student.
So I took the necessary action. To complete my education, I worked three jobs. Because I was always striving to stay afloat, 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. Just no yelling, no arguing.
That was the end of it, I thought.
However, I absolutely 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.
“You’re still hung up on that college fund thing?,” my dad yelled before I could even comprehend what was occurring. 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 about an hour sitting on the floor, feeling like a twelve-year-old once more.
I’m spiraling right now. There is a part of me that feels totally justified. A part of me is sick with guilt because, well, he’s my father.
I kept asking myself, “Am I wrong for refusing to give them money and cutting contact again?” Is this as messed up as it feels, or should I have handled it differently?
