It had been taken.
On purpose.
Three weeks before I was supposed to leave for college, my parents drained the education account my grandmother had been building for me since the day I was born. One hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars. Eighteen years of birthday checks, Christmas deposits, small contributions tucked away after good harvest seasons, tax refunds she could have spent on herself, and random Tuesday transfers she made because, in her words, “a future needs feeding even when nobody is watching.”
She called it my tomorrow.
My parents apparently called it Tyler’s down payment.
I was standing at the kitchen counter when I found out, barefoot on the cool linoleum, a half-finished enrollment form open on my laptop and a cup of coffee going cold beside my elbow. It was one of those late July mornings that already felt tired by nine o’clock. The air conditioner rattled in the window. A fly kept throwing itself against the screen door. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower coughed and died, then started again with an angry roar.
All I had left to do before move-in was confirm the tuition transfer.
That was supposed to be the easy part.
