I have two daughters—and one mistake that nearly shattered everything between us.
Lily, my oldest, is sixteen. She’s strong, thoughtful, and carries a quiet resilience that reminds me of her father, my first husband. When he passed away, he left her $50,000. That money became more than a number in a bank account. It was a promise, a legacy, and a connection to the parent she had lost too soon. I was named custodian of the account, and for years I told her it was for her future—for college, a first apartment, or whatever dream she chose when she turned eighteen. She trusted me with it completely.
Then there’s Emma, my youngest, just nine years old. She’s bright, mischievous, and full of the kind of energy that makes you both laugh and ache with exhaustion. My current husband and I wanted Emma to attend the same private school Lily had once gone to. We told ourselves it was about fairness, about giving both daughters “equal opportunities.” We told ourselves it would be temporary, that we’d replenish what we borrowed. We told ourselves a lot of comforting lies while our bank account shouted a hard no.
And so, against every whisper of conscience, we dipped into Lily’s inheritance.
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