I am 17. My brother, Noah, is 15.
Our mom died when I was 12. Dad remarried Carla two years later. Then Dad died last year from a heart attack, and the whole house changed overnight.
Prom came up a month ago.
She took over the bills, the accounts, the mail, everything. Mom had left money for me and Noah. Dad always said it was for “important things.” School. College. Big milestones.
Apparently, Carla decided her definition of “important” was different.
Prom came up a month ago.
She was in the kitchen scrolling on her phone when I said, “Prom is in three weeks. I need a dress.”
“Prom dresses are a ridiculous waste of money.”
“Mom left money for things like this.”
“No one wants to see you prancing around in some overpriced princess costume.”
That made her laugh.
Not a real laugh. One of those little cruel ones. “That money keeps this house running now.”
Then she finally looked at me and said, “And honestly? No one wants to see you prancing around in some overpriced princess costume.”
I said, “So there’s money for that.”
“Watch your tone.”
“You’re using our money.”
I went upstairs and cried into my pillow.
She stood up so fast her chair scraped. “I am keeping this family afloat. You have no idea what things cost.”
“Then why did Dad say the money was ours?”
Her voice went flat. “Because your father was bad with money and bad with boundaries.”
I went upstairs and cried into my pillow like I was 12 again.
He looked down at his hands. “Okay.”
Two nights later, he came into my room carrying a stack of old jeans.
“And you can make a dress?”
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