After my mom died, the silence in our house wasn’t just quiet—it was hollow. Grief filled every corner, and the only thing louder than the stillness was the promise she’d left behind: that Ethan and I would be okay. I clung to that, even when our father—who had walked out years ago—suddenly became our legal guardian again. Because of the law, not love.

Living in his house felt like exile. His new wife, Marla, was polite but distant, and Richard… he was the same man who left Mom when she got sick. I kept my head down, my college acceptance letters tucked away in a shoebox under my bed. College was my escape, my future. Until the day he came home early and told me to stop dreaming.

He’d given my entire college fund to Ethan. Just like that. No explanation, no apology—just bitterness in his voice and mockery in his eyes. But I didn’t yell. I packed my things, walked out, and went to Grandma Elaine’s. The next morning, over tea, she called a lawyer.

Turns out, guardians don’t get to steal. The court froze his accounts, restored my fund, and stripped him of control. I left for college wearing my mom’s earrings, our smoothie recipe pinned on my dorm wall. And now, when his name flashes on my screen—I let it ring, then fade. Some closures don’t need answers. Just boundaries.