My mom was my everything, and when cancer took her, she left me memories and a lifeline — a trust fund meant for my future.
When my dad greedily started using it for his stepdaughter, it felt like he was erasing Mom’s memory piece by piece.
I couldn’t let him take what was left of her or me.
There’s this thing about losing someone you love — you carry the weight of it forever, even if it doesn’t show. I lost my mom to breast cancer when I was ten. One day, she was there, brushing my hair and humming to some old rock song, and the next, she was gone.
Just like that.
I remember our last conversation like it was yesterday. She was sitting on her hospital bed, her fingers weakly running through my hair.
“Promise me something, baby girl,” she whispered.
“Anything, Mom,” I said, trying to hold back my tears.
“Promise me you’ll never let anyone dim your light. You’re so special, Iris.
So incredibly special.”
She didn’t leave me with much — just a few photos, the smell of her favorite vanilla perfume lingering on her scarves, and a trust fund she set up for me before she passed.
“This is for Iris,” she’d told my dad and my grandparents. “For her education and her future. Promise me she’ll always have it.”
They promised.
My dad promised too. But promises don’t mean much when someone’s not around to hold you to them.
My dad remarried two years later. His new wife, Marianne, came with her own baggage: a twelve-year-old daughter named Emily.
I didn’t mind at first.
Mom was gone, and I thought maybe this could be a new chapter.
But I quickly learned how things would work in our house: Emily first, Marianne second, Dad somewhere in the mix, and me? Not even in the picture!
It started small. Once, our fridge and shower broke at the same time.
Dad took money from the trust fund without my permission to fix them.
“I’ll pay it back,” he said like it was no big deal. A week later, he bought Emily a MacBook for her birthday. On mine?
A $100 gift card.
It wasn’t the money — it was the message.
Over the years, he kept dipping into the fund for car repairs, home renovations, and things that had nothing to do with me. “It’s just temporary,” he’d always say. But the withdrawals kept piling up, and the “temporary” excuses wore thin.
By the time I got to college, I didn’t need the money for tuition because of my scholarship.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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