At seventeen, I thought hard work was enough. My father, Greg, didn’t offer guidance—just terms.
“No grade below A-minus,” he said, sliding a folder across the table like a contract. The day I got a B in Chemistry, he pulled my college fund and called it business.
So I started over—with a job, financial aid, and no safety net. I worked long shifts, studied harder, lived in a cramped apartment that was fully mine. Meanwhile, Greg bragged at family dinners about tuition he didn’t pay.
I stayed silent for a while, thinking survival meant peace—but silence began to rot.