I’m using a throwaway because I honestly don’t even know where to vent anymore. This whole situation is messy, emotional, and somehow still follows me years later.
When I was growing up, my mom set up a college fund for me before she passed away. It wasn’t some massive trust, but it was enough to give me a real head start and take some pressure off when the time came.
Then my dad remarried, and my stepmom basically took over the household finances.
That’s when the “disappearing money” started.
Every single year around Christmas, about $5,000 would vanish from that fund. Suddenly there were expensive decorations, piles of gifts, little trips, and holiday splurges. I noticed. I asked questions. I pushed back. And every time, my dad shut it down with the same excuses:
“It’s family money.”
“We’ll put it back later.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
They never put it back.
Eventually they went bankrupt while I was still in school, and the college fund was completely gone.
So I did what I had to do. I worked three jobs to get through school. I missed out on everything—sleep, weekends, holidays, fun, even basic rest—because I was constantly trying to stay afloat. Over time, the resentment got so heavy that I went low contact. I needed distance just to breathe.
Years passed.
Now I’m finally stable. Not wealthy, not living some perfect life—but okay. And then out of nowhere, my dad reached out asking for $40,000. He called it a “loan,” but refused to say what it was for. No explanation, just pressure.
I told him no. Calmly. No yelling, no drama. I assumed that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
The next day, I opened my door and literally froze—my dad and stepmom were standing right there. They’d pressured my aunt into giving them my address. Before I could even process it, my dad snapped at me like I was the selfish one.
“You’re STILL stuck on that college fund thing? We fed you and gave you a roof over your head for 18 years!”
He went on and on about how food, clothes, and shelter were “worth way more” than the money they took. Like parenting was some bill I owed him back. Like I was ungrateful for not paying him for raising me.
Then he told me I needed to “grow up,” stop living in the past, and “help my family.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t argue. I just told them to leave and closed the door.
And then I slid down onto the floor and sat there for a long time, feeling like I was 12 years old again—small, powerless, and unheard.
Now I’m spiraling. Part of me feels completely justified. But another part feels sick with guilt because… he’s still my dad. And I hate that he can still make me feel like the bad guy.
