The First Time My Boyfriend Hit Me, My Dad Told Me To Thank Him.

Rebuilding

By the end of the day, I had a new bank account, an appointment with financial aid, and a job application for the campus bookstore. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

That night, I got a text from an unknown number. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be. Call your father.” The text said.

“Troy.” It was signed.

I blocked the number immediately, but the damage was done. They were still working together, still trying to control me.

The Mask Slips

The next day, I was walking to class when a familiar car pulled up beside me: my dad’s silver Lexus. The window rolled down, but it wasn’t my dad behind the wheel; it was Troy.

“Just hear me out,” He called.

I kept walking, heart pounding. He was violating the restraining order just by being this close to me.

The campus pathway was lined with maple trees just beginning to turn golden with autumn. Students passed by on either side, some glancing curiously at the slow-moving car keeping pace with me.

My backpack felt suddenly heavy on my shoulders, the textbooks inside a physical burden matching my emotional one. “Your dad’s worried sick,” Troy continued, driving slowly alongside me.

“He just wants to talk.” He said.

I pulled out my phone and started recording. “You’re violating a restraining order. Leave now or I’m calling campus security.” I said.

Troy’s face hardened. “You ungrateful bitch. After everything we’ve done for you.” He said.

Students were starting to stare. I kept walking, kept recording.

“I’m counting to three, then I’m calling.” I said.

“This isn’t over,” Troy spat.

But he drove away. The mask had slipped completely now, revealing the ugliness beneath.

His handsome face was contorted with rage, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he accelerated away. The car’s tires squealed slightly on the wet pavement.

Several students had stopped to watch the confrontation, their expressions ranging from curiosity to concern. I reported the violation immediately.

I showed the video to campus security, then to the police. They took a report but warned me it might be hard to prove he was within the 100-yard limit just from the video.

Standing My Ground

That afternoon, I met with the financial aid office. The counselor, a kind man named Ronald, reviewed my situation.

“There are options,” He assured me.

“Emergency aid, work-study positions, loans if necessary.” He said.

I left with paperwork and a slightly lighter heart. I could do this; I could stand on my own.

The Storage Unit

But my dad wasn’t done, not by a long shot. The next week, I got a call from my landlord back home.

I’d been renting a small storage unit for things I couldn’t fit in my dorm. “Someone’s been asking about your unit,” He said.

“Guy named Troy said he was your fiancé and needed to get some of his things.” He said.

My blood ran cold. “He’s not my fiancé. He shouldn’t have access.” I said.

“That’s what I figured. Just wanted to warn you.” The landlord said.

I thanked him and hung up, then immediately called Juniper at the counseling center. “They’re escalating. I’m scared.” I told her.

The storage facility was on the outskirts of town, a series of identical metal units with orange doors and padlocks. I’d rented the smallest one available, using it to store winter clothes, books I couldn’t fit in my dorm, and a few keepsakes from my childhood that I’d managed to smuggle out of my father’s house over the years.

The thought of Troy trying to access it, trying to inventory my possessions, perhaps planning to take or destroy them, made me feel violated all over again. Juniper helped me make a safety plan.

I changed my routes to classes, started using the buddy system with Sadie and other friends, and installed extra locks on my dorm room door. The campus bookstore hired me, which was a small victory.

The pay wasn’t great, but it was something. I worked evenings and weekends, shelving books and running the register.

It was mind-numbing work, but I needed the money. One night, about a month after the restraining order, I was closing up the store alone when I saw Troy waiting outside.

He was just standing there, staring through the glass door. I locked myself in the back office and called campus security.

Lies of Concern

By the time they arrived, Troy was gone, but he’d left a note taped to the door. “We need to talk. Your dad is sick.” The note said.

The back office was barely larger than a closet, crammed with a desk, filing cabinet, and shelves of office supplies. The single overhead light flickered intermittently, casting strange shadows on the walls.

I huddled under the desk, phone pressed to my ear, trying to keep my voice steady as I spoke to the dispatcher. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure Troy could hear it through the door.

I knew it was probably a lie, another manipulation tactic, but what if it wasn’t? What if my dad really was sick?

I called my Aunt Kathy, my dad’s sister. We weren’t close, but she’d always been kind to me.

“Is Dad okay?” I asked when she answered.

“What? Yes, he’s fine. I just had lunch with him yesterday.” She paused.

“He didn’t mention you.” She added.

Relief and hurt washed over me in equal measure. “Troy told me he was sick. I guess he was lying.” I said.

Aunt Kathy was quiet for a moment. “Your dad’s not sick, but he’s not fine either. He’s angry, Catherine. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him.” She said.

“Because I won’t let him control my life anymore?” I asked.

“Because you’ve embarrassed him. The restraining order, the accusations against Troy. People are talking.” She said.

I almost laughed. “So this is about his reputation?” I asked.

“It’s always been about his reputation,” She said softly.

“Ever since your mom died. He couldn’t control what happened to her, so he tried to control everything else. Especially you.” She said.

The phone felt heavy in my hand as Aunt Kathy’s words sank in. I was sitting on my bed, back against the wall, knees pulled up to my chest.

Outside my window, the campus was quiet, most students already gone for the evening. A single lamp illuminated my room, casting long shadows across the floor.

The charm bracelet on my wrist caught the light, the tiny book charm seeming to glow. For the first time, I wondered if my mother had seen signs of my father’s controlling nature before she died, if she had worried about leaving me alone with him.

The Inheritance

After we hung up, I sat on my bed thinking about what she’d said. My dad’s obsession with control, with appearances, had shaped my entire life, and now that I was breaking free, he was desperate to pull me back in.

The next day, I got an email from Troy’s lawyer. They were contesting the restraining order, claiming I had fabricated evidence.

There would be a hearing in two weeks. I forwarded it to Juniper, who put me in touch with a lawyer through the university’s legal aid program.

His name was Jasper, and he had kind eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. “They’re bluffing,” He said after reviewing my case.

“Your evidence is solid. But we should be prepared anyway.” He said.

For the next two weeks, I lived in a state of constant anxiety. I kept going to classes, kept working at the bookstore, but I was always looking over my shoulder.

The Final Leverage

Then, three days before the hearing, something unexpected happened. I got an email from my dad’s secretary, Harley.

“Your father asked me to send you these documents to sign,” The email read.

Attached were papers transferring my car into Troy’s name. The car my mom had left me, the one thing my dad couldn’t legally take away because it had been specifically left to me in her will.

I called Jasper immediately. “Can he do this?” I asked.

“Not without your signature,” Jasper assured me.

“Don’t sign anything, and forward me that email.” He said.

The car was a modest sedan, nothing flashy, but it had been my mother’s pride and joy. She had taught me to drive in it when I was just fourteen, letting me practice in empty parking lots on weekends.

The leather seat still smelled faintly of her perfume if you knew where to sniff. There was a small dent in the passenger door from when she’d misjudged the parking space at the grocery store.

The glove compartment still held the mix CDs she’d made for road trips, carefully labeled in her neat handwriting. That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept thinking about my mom, about what she would say if she could see what was happening. She had always been my dad’s opposite: warm, loving, free-spirited. She would have been horrified by what he’d become.