When I was 17, my dad, Greg, made my college funding conditional on perfect grades. No Bs. Every class had to be pre-approved, weekly check-ins mandatory. It wasn’t guidance—it was control.
I worked hard, stayed out of trouble, and still earned a B in Chemistry. That was enough for him to pull my college fund.
“Of course, Dad,” I said calmly. “I understand.” Inside, I felt a strange relief. I didn’t want to go to college under his rules anyway.
I graduated, got a job, applied for financial aid, and paid for my first semester myself. It was hard, but I finally had something I’d never had: independence.
At a family barbecue years later, I told the truth. My dad had never funded my college; he’d made it about control, not care. The room went silent.
He tried to shame me, but I held my ground: “You humiliated yourself. I paid for every class, worked hard for every dollar. You don’t get to take credit anymore.”
Now, my life is mine—small apartment, thrifted curtains, pasta simmering on the stove. I changed my major to psychology, pursuing my own path. I’ve learned: freedom is worth more than perfection, and claiming your story is its own kind of victory.
