When I was nine, my world fell apart. My mother — the most loving, steady person in my life — passed away after a long illness. Before she died, she made sure I would have something to hold onto when I was older: a $25,000 trust set aside for when I turned eighteen. “For college or your first home,” she’d told me with a tired but hopeful smile. My dad had promised her he’d protect that money. I believed him.
Then came Tracy.
Tracy entered our lives a few years later — bright lipstick, honeyed voice, all sweetness on the surface. She told everyone she wanted a “fresh start” with my dad, and for a while, I tried to believe her. But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show. The moment the wedding rings were on, her tone changed. She criticized everything — how I dressed, what I ate, even how I spoke about my mom. It was as if she wanted to erase her memory completely.
By the time I turned sixteen, my dad was distracted with work and Tracy ran the house. One day, I overheard them arguing — something about “the account” and how “it’s not like the kid needs it right now.” My stomach dropped. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I had a terrible feeling it was about my trust.
When I asked Dad months later, he brushed me off with a weak smile. “Everything’s fine,” he said, not meeting my eyes. But when I turned eighteen and went to the bank to check, the truth hit like a punch. The account was empty. Every cent my mom had left me was gone.
Tracy had convinced my dad to use it “for the family.” Specifically — for her son, Jake. The smug grin on her face when I found out told me she didn’t feel one ounce of guilt. My mother’s savings — her legacy — had been spent on a shiny new Jeep Wrangler for a boy who had never worked a day in his life. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just walked out, vowing that one day, I wouldn’t need revenge — because karma would handle it for me.