There's this thing about losing someone you love — you carry the weight of it forever, even if it doesn't show. I lost my mom to breast cancer when I was ten. One day, she was there, brushing my hair and humming to some old rock song, and the next, she was gone. Just like that.

I remember our last conversation like it was yesterday. She was sitting on her hospital bed, her fingers weakly running through my hair.

"Promise me something, baby girl," she whispered.

"Anything, Mom," I said, trying to hold back my tears.

"Promise me you'll never let anyone dim your light. You're so special, Iris. So incredibly special."

She didn't leave me with much — just a few photos, the smell of her favorite vanilla perfume lingering on her scarves, and a trust fund she set up for me before she passed.

"This is for Iris," she'd told my dad and my grandparents. "For her education and her future. Promise me she'll always have it."

They promised. My dad promised too. But promises don't mean much when someone's not around to hold you to them.

My dad remarried two years later. His new wife, Marianne, came with her own baggage: a twelve-year-old daughter named Emily.

I didn't mind at first. Mom was gone, and I thought maybe this could be a new chapter.

But I quickly learned how things would work in our house: Emily first, Marianne second, Dad somewhere in the mix, and me? Not even in the picture!

It started small. Once, our fridge and shower broke at the same time. Dad took money from the trust fund without my permission to fix them.

"I'll pay it back," he said like it was no big deal. A week later, he bought Emily a MacBook for her birthday. On mine? A $100 gift card.

It wasn't the money — it was the message.

Over the years, he kept dipping into the fund for car repairs, home renovations, and things that had nothing to do with me. "It's just temporary," he'd always say. But the withdrawals kept piling up, and the "temporary" excuses wore thin.

By the time I got to college, I didn't need the money for tuition because of my scholarship. That didn't stop him from finding new ways to use it, though. Every time I brought it up, he brushed me off. "Don't stress, Iris. It's safe."

Safe. Right.

"You understand, don't you, Iris?" That's what he'd always say when something I needed got pushed aside for Emily. New clothes for her pageant? Sure. My vacation? Maybe next year. It stung, but I swallowed it down.

But the swallowing got harder.

I'll never forget the day I realized how much of Mom's trust fund was gone. It was late one night during my final year of college. I'd overheard Emily talking to her friends about how "Daddy" was covering the cost of her new car. My stomach twisted as I thought about the fund.

"Can you believe it?" Emily squealed through the thin walls. "A brand new BMW! Daddy said I deserve it for making it to nationals!"

My hands trembled as I sat at my desk, memories of Mom's words echoing in my head: "This is for Iris. For her future."

It had been years since I'd seen the account. My dad had told me not to "stress over it." But now, something felt off, and I decided to check it.

I logged into the account, and my heart sank. The numbers didn't make sense. Thousands were missing. Pageant fees. A water heater. Emily's car. Every withdrawal was like a punch in the gut.