d stopped sharing my accomplishments with my family years ago when I realized they didn’t care.
“Exams can wait,” he snapped. “Your sister’s wedding happens once. You think your mother and I struggled to put you through school so you could skip family obligations?”
That line made me laugh, though I kept it silent. Struggled? They’d paid my first semester of tuition four years ago and held it over my head ever since like they’d bought me a palace. After that first semester, I’d taken out loans, worked three part-time jobs, and applied for every scholarship I could find. I’d paid my own way through college while they threw money at Jessica’s sorority fees, spring break trips, and designer wardrobe.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“You’ll do more than think about it. You’ll be there in a dress with a smile on your face, or you can forget about me writing another tuition check. Your choice.” He hung up before I could respond.
I set my phone down and looked around my small apartment. It wasn’t much, a studio with a kitchenet and a bathroom that sometimes smelled like the neighbors cooking, but it was mine. Every piece of furniture, every dish, every book had been paid for with money I’d earned myself.
My family had no idea I’d been financially independent for years. The thread about tuition was laughable. There was no tuition left to pay. I’d finished my degree, graduated at the top of my class, and landed a position at Thornberry Systems, one of the top environmental engineering firms in the Pacific Northwest. I was set to start in 2 weeks, right after Jessica’s wedding, which I had zero intention of attending.
But my father didn’t know that. Neither did my mother. And Jessica, she probably didn’t even know I existed half the time.
