I had a college fund my mom set up before she passed away. It wasn’t enormous, but it was supposed to make school a little easier. After my dad remarried, though, my stepmom basically took control of the finances.
Every year, like clockwork around Christmas, about $5,000 would somehow vanish from that account—spent on decorations, gifts, holiday trips, you name it. I questioned it. I argued. I begged my dad to stop it. But he always brushed me off with, “It’s family money,” or “We’ll replace it later.”
They never did. Instead, they ended up going bankrupt while I was still in school—and the college fund was completely wiped out.
So I did what I had to do. I worked three jobs to finish school. I missed out on everything—sleep, weekends, holidays, fun, even basic peace of mind—because I was constantly trying to keep my head above water. Over time, I went low contact, not out of drama, but because the resentment was eating me alive and I needed distance to survive.
Years passed. I finally got to a place where I’m stable—not wealthy, but okay.
Then recently, my dad reached out out of nowhere and asked me for $40,000. He called it a “loan,” but he wouldn’t explain what it was for. It felt shady and manipulative all at once.
I said no. Calmly. No arguing, no yelling—just no.
I assumed that would be the end of it.
But the very next day, I opened my front door and literally froze. My dad and stepmom were standing there. Later I found out they’d pressured my aunt into giving them my address.
Before I could even process what was happening, my dad snapped, “You’re still hung up on that college fund thing? We fed you and put a roof over your head for 18 years!”
Then he launched into this speech about how food, shelter, clothes—basic parenting—was “worth way more” than the money they took. He told me I needed to “grow up,” stop “living in the past,” and “help my family.”
I didn’t even scream back. I just told them to leave and closed the door.
And then I sat on the floor for almost an hour, feeling like I was twelve years old again.
Now I’m spiraling. Part of me feels completely justified. Another part feels sick with guilt because… yeah, he’s my dad.
So I keep replaying it: Am I wrong for refusing to give them money and cutting contact again? Should I have handled it differently—or is this as messed up as it feels?
