Some parents give advice. Mine gave ultimatums. Especially my dad—Greg.
I was 17 when he called me into the kitchen one afternoon. He sat there, arms crossed, with a smug little smile and a manila folder on the table like he was about to present a business proposal, not talk to his own daughter.
“You can go to college, Lacey,” he said, tapping the folder. “But there are conditions, my girl.”
Conditions. Not support. Not encouragement. Rules.
He spoke like a boss, not a father, listing them off like bullet points from a contract.
“No grade lower than an A-minus.”
“I approve every class you take.”
“Weekly check-ins—syllabi, deadlines, professor reviews. Everything.”
And then he took a bite of his custard tart and sipped his coffee, totally relaxed, like he hadn’t just turned my future into a checklist.
“It might sound harsh,” he added. “But I’m trying to teach you responsibility, Lacey.”
No. What he really meant was control. He didn’t want a daughter. He wanted a project.
Even in middle school, he used to dig through my backpack after dinner like a detective. Papers, notebooks, even chewed-up pencils weren’t safe. He acted like if I lost a worksheet, it meant I was falling apart.
In high school, it got worse. If my grades weren’t posted fast enough, he emailed teachers. If I got a B, he’d screenshot it and send it to me with the subject line:
“Explain this, Lacey. No dinner until you do.”
He didn’t wait for my reply. He texted the same message two minutes later.
I once got called to the counselor’s office because my dad accused a teacher of hiding an assignment. The teacher had just been behind on grading. The counselor looked at me with a tired, sad kind of sympathy. She didn’t even ask questions. Just gave me a granola bar and told me to breathe.
So yeah… I knew what I was agreeing to when I signed that “deal.” But college was my dream. My way out. I figured if I played by his rules, maybe he’d finally loosen his grip.
My mom had died when I was 13. Before she passed, she made Dad promise he’d take care of my education—no matter what.
So I tried. I worked my butt off. Honors English, AP Psych, SATs, essays. I even made color-coded college lists. I did it all while living in that tight bubble of pressure with Greg always lurking in the background.
My grades were strong—mostly A’s, with a few B’s. And I was proud. Deep down, I really was. But I couldn’t enjoy it. Not when he made me feel like every grade was a test of my worth.
Then one night, a week after my final exams, we sat down for dinner. I thought he’d say something. Maybe congratulate me.
Instead, he shoved that same folder across the table. The roast chicken shook when it landed.
“You didn’t meet the standard,” he said coldly. “I’m pulling your college fund. A deal’s a deal.”
I blinked. “Because of a B in Chemistry? Dad… seriously?”
He slammed his hand on the table. “I expected more. What have you been doing instead of studying? Seeing some boy behind my back? If I find out—”
I didn’t answer. There was no boy. No slacking off. Just one hard final. But he didn’t care.
I should’ve begged, right? Or cried? But I didn’t.
Instead, I felt this strange wave of relief. I didn’t want to go to college with him breathing down my neck anyway. If a B in Chem bought me freedom, so be it.
“Of course, Dad,” I said calmly. “I understand. Do you want me to reheat the mashed potatoes?”
That night, I made my decision.
I went to graduation with my head held high. When people asked about college, I smiled and said, “I’m taking some time off. I’ll figure it out.”
And I did. I found a job. I applied for financial aid. I took out loans. That first semester, I paid for everything on my own. Work-study, budgeting, the whole deal.
It was tough. My apartment was small. My wallet was always thin. But it was mine. My space. My decisions. No check-ins, no guilt, no one hovering.
And my father? He never told anyone what really happened.
To the family, nothing had changed. He played the hero.
“Tuition’s expensive,” he’d say at parties. “But I told Lacey I’d invest in her future. That girl’s got potential!”
“She’s smart, but I still keep her on track. You know, checking grades, watching for distractions. Like any good father.”
I’d sit there across the dinner table, biting my tongue, while everyone nodded along like he was Father of the Year.
For a while, I let it go.
“You’ve already won,” I’d whisper to myself in the mirror. “You’re free.”
But then came Aunt Lisa’s Fourth of July barbecue.
She went all out every year—flags everywhere, fruit salad inside a watermelon, and flimsy paper plates trying to hold ribs and potato salad at the same time.
I’d just finished my sophomore year. I’d passed every class, worked extra hours, and even saved a bit of money.
I was sitting on the back patio with a plate of food when Uncle Ray turned to my father, beer in hand.
“Greg, what’s college tuition like these days? Jordan’s almost there. Lisa and I are stressing.”
Greg laughed and took a bite of corn.
“You don’t even want to know,” he said. “With books, fees, extras? It adds up. And Lacey eats like a horse, so I have to budget for that too!”
Everyone laughed. Everyone but me.
I looked up slowly, then said, “Why are you asking him, Uncle Ray? I’m the one paying for it. I can give you a breakdown.”
The entire patio went dead silent.
Greg coughed. “She’s joking.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “He pulled my college fund over a B in Chemistry. Said I didn’t hold up my end of the deal.”
“Wait, what?” Aunt Lisa gasped. “He canceled your funding… over that?”
My father stammered, “It wasn’t just that—”
“Yes, it was,” I cut in. “And I’m glad. I’d rather be broke and free than controlled like a robot.”
Jordan, my cousin, whispered, “That’s… insane.”
Aunt Lisa looked heartbroken.
“Greg, seriously? You told everyone you were supporting her. You promised my sister you’d look after Lacey’s education. That was her dying wish.”
Greg opened his mouth, but no words came out. Just that stunned look of someone who thought no one would ever call him out.
Later, while people lit sparklers and roasted marshmallows, I went inside to grab a drink. The kitchen was quiet. I was halfway to the fridge when I heard his voice behind me.
“That was out of line, Lacey. You humiliated me.”
I turned around slowly.
“No. You did. I just stopped covering for you.”
His face twisted.
“You don’t know how hard it is, raising a kid alone. I’ve done my best since your mom died!”
I looked him in the eyes.
“No. You punished me for not being perfect. You used your support like a weapon. That’s not parenting. That’s power.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“You always twist the story. Always make me the bad guy.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I paid for every class. I worked for every dollar. So you don’t get to claim anything anymore.”
He scoffed and walked out. Just like always.
I grabbed my lemonade, stepped outside, and rejoined the people who actually celebrated when I said I made the Dean’s List.
Later that night, fireworks painted the sky red and gold. Jordan handed me a popsicle.
“That was badass,” he grinned.
“Thanks,” I smiled.
“Must’ve been hard to say all that, huh?”
“Not really,” I said. “It just took enough. I’m done letting him be the bully in my life.”
Now, life is quiet.
My apartment’s tiny—just one bedroom with creaky floors and a hissing radiator. But it’s home.
The chipped mug? I dropped it. The thrifted curtains? Bought during a garage sale coffee run. The sauce on the stove? My mom’s recipe.
Tomato, garlic, fresh basil. It smells like warmth and love and comfort.
“You can’t go wrong with pasta,” she used to say, kissing my forehead.
I lean on the windowsill, watching the sky fade into purple.
“Hey, Mom,” I whisper. “I’m making the sauce.”
The wind brushes past me like a soft reply.
“I wish you were here. But I think you’d be proud.”
I stir the sauce gently. Then I say it out loud, to the quiet room.
“I’m staying away from Dad for a while. Just until I heal. I’m done letting him control me. And I think you’d understand that.”
I smile.
“I changed my major to Psychology. I want to help people understand themselves. You always said I was good at listening.”
I walk back to the window.
“I’ve come a long way, haven’t I?”
The clouds drift. The room smells like basil and memory. The window stays open. And I let myself breathe.