Lacey’s Rebellion
Some parents have rules. Mine had ultimatums. And my father? He treated every promise like a contract—one he could rip up the second I slipped.
I was 17 when he called me to the kitchen table, a manila folder in front of him and that smug, knowing smile that meant he’d already decided my future.
“You want college, Lacey?” He leaned back, arms crossed. “Then here’s the deal.”
His rules were simple—if you like living in a prison.
No grades below an A-minus.
He’d approve every class.
Weekly reports on professors, deadlines, my entire life.
He sat there, sipping coffee like a king holding court, while I sat across from him—not his daughter, but some risky investment he needed to control.
“Sounds harsh?” He smirked. “I’m teaching you responsibility.”
What he really meant? Power.
My father didn’t just parent—he policed. In middle school, he’d ransack my backpack like a detective hunting for clues to my failure. In high school? Worse. He’d email teachers if a grade was posted late. Once, he sent me a screenshot of a single B with the subject line: “Explain this. No dinner until you do.”
I didn’t even have time to reply before my phone buzzed with the same demand.
The school counselor knew him by name. “Your dad’s… intense,” she’d say, rubbing her temples like his presence gave her migraines.
But college was my golden ticket. My escape. And like any desperate teenager, I thought—maybe if I prove myself, he’ll back off.
So I worked. Hard.
I built spreadsheets, wrote essays at 2 AM, swallowed every panic attack before it could ruin my GPA. My grades? Mostly A’s, a few B’s. Not perfect, but good. I took AP classes, aced my SATs. I should’ve been proud.
But my father? He saw flaws.
“You didn’t meet the standard,” he announced one night, slamming a folder onto the table so hard the roast chicken nearly flew off. “I’m pulling your college fund. A deal’s a deal.”
I stared. “Because of a B in Chemistry?”
“I expected more,” he snapped. “What have you been doing instead of studying? If I find out you’ve been sneaking around with boys—”
I didn’t argue. Didn’t beg. Because deep down? Relief.
The truth? I didn’t want his money if it came with strings—no, chains. If freedom meant being imperfect, then fine. Let him keep his cash.
“Of course, Dad,” I said calmly, sliding the folder away. “Want me to reheat the mashed potatoes?”
I paid for college myself.
Work-study. Loans. Ramen for dinner every. Single. Night. My apartment was tiny, my bank account thinner than my patience—but for the first time, I was free.
Meanwhile, my father played the hero. At family gatherings, he’d puff out his chest and brag:
“Tuition’s no joke, but I told Lacey—I believe in her future!”
“She’s smart, but I still check in. Can’t have her fooling around with boys!”
I’d sit there, biting my tongue so hard I tasted blood.
Then came the barbecue.
Fourth of July. Aunt Lisa’s backyard. Plastic flags, watermelon salad, and my uncle Ray asking the question that changed everything:
“Greg, what’s tuition these days? Lisa and I are stressing for Jordan.”
My father chuckled. “Oh, you don’t wanna know. And Lacey? She eats like a horse, so I gotta budget for that too.”
I didn’t look up from my plate. “Why ask him? I’m the one paying.”
Silence. Even the kids froze mid-sparkler.
“She’s joking,” my father coughed.
“No,” I said, finally meeting his eyes. “He canceled my fund over a B in Chemistry.”
Aunt Lisa’s fork clattered. “Greg. Seriously?”
“That wasn’t the only reason!” he blustered.
“It was,” I said. “But honestly? Best thing he ever did for me. I’d rather be in debt than under his thumb.”
My cousin Jordan muttered, “That’s… insane.”
Aunt Lisa looked like she’d been slapped. “Greg. The one thing Leslie asked before she died was that you’d take care of Lacey’s education. And this is how you honor that?”
My father’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Later, in the kitchen, he cornered me. “You humiliated me.”
“No,” I said, cold as steel. “You humiliated yourself. I just stopped lying for you.”
He sneered. “You have no idea how hard it is to be a parent.”
“You weren’t parenting,” I shot back. “You were punishing me for not being perfect.”
He stormed off like I’d rewritten history.
But I didn’t care.
Now? My life is mine.
My apartment creaks. My curtains are thrifted. My mom’s pasta sauce simmers on the stove—tomato, garlic, basil. The way she made it when I had a bad day.
I lean on the windowsill, whispering to the wind:
“Hey, Mom. Changed my major today. Psychology. I wanna help people heal. Think you’d like that.”
The breeze swirls in, warm and light.
“I’m staying away from Dad for a while. Not forever. Just… until he learns I’m not his project.”
I stir the sauce. It’s tangy, imperfect. Just like me.
And for the first time?
That’s enough.