“We’re Using Your Daughter’s College Fund For My Son’s Wedding — Weddings Are More Important Than…

The Theft in the Glass Office

“We’re using your daughter’s college fund for my son’s wedding. Weddings are more important than education,” Sister said, while dad transferred $52,000 from the account I’d been filling since she was born.

“Besides, she doesn’t really need college,” Mom added. My daughter was accepted to MIT.

I didn’t scream. I called my lawyer, then the bank. By the time my sister said, “We’re using your daughter’s college fund for my son’s wedding,”

my dad had already clicked confirm on the transfer screen. We were in the little glass office at the bank. All three of us were crammed around the manager’s computer like it was a family photo instead of a disaster.

My sister Megan crossed one leg over the other and leaned back like she owned the place. My dad squinted at the monitor, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. On the screen, I saw the number $52,000.

“Weddings are more important than education,” Megan added. “Almost bored, people remember a wedding. No one remembers where you went to college.”

“Besides, she doesn’t really need college, Larry. She’ll be fine. She’s too smart anyway,” My mom, sitting in the corner with her purse in her lap, chimed in without looking at me. Too smart? My daughter had gotten her acceptance email from MIT three days earlier.

I still had the printout folded in my wallet behind my license. I watched my dad’s finger click the mouse and saw the little spinning wheel. The transfer went from Mia’s college fund to Megan’s wedding savings.

My throat went tight. My hands started to shake so hard I had to slide them under my thighs. I didn’t scream, and I didn’t flip the desk or grab the mouse or lunge across the room.

I stood up. “I need to make a call,” I said. My voice sounded weirdly calm, like it belonged to someone else.

No one stopped me. They didn’t even look worried. Why would they? In their heads, the money was already theirs.

I’m Larry, 45, Boston, Massachusetts. I’ve been a taxi driver since my 20s. I know every one-way downtown, every shortcut to Logan, and every pothole that never gets fixed.

I’m also a single dad to one kid, Mia, 18. She is quiet and sharp as a razor, the kind of kid who reads physics textbooks for fun and apologizes when other people bump into her. Her mom left when Mia was two, saying she wasn’t built for this.

I picked up extra shifts and learned how to French braid from YouTube. I started putting money away. At first, it was whatever I had left from tips at the end of the week.

Sometimes it was 10 bucks, sometimes nothing. Then it was $50 a week, then $100. When ride apps came in and business got weird, I picked up nights to keep the contributions steady.

I opened that college fund the week Mia turned one with $25 to start. For 18 years, I filled it during birthdays, Christmas, and with tips and airport cash. I saved the crumpled 20s drunk businessmen left wedged between the seats.

Every time my parents or my sister needed just a little help, I still made sure something went into that account. My parents knew about it, and so did Megan. They love talking about how Mia will be the first college kid in the family.

They brag to their friends about my genius daughter. Then they turn around and hand her a $10 Target gift card while shoving $200 sneakers at Megan’s son, Dylan. Dylan is 23 now, the golden boy, tall, athletic, with a big smile and average everything else.

My parents treat him like royalty because he’s the first male grandchild. He lives five minutes away and drops by for dinner every other day to raid their fridge. Meanwhile, Mia got used to hearing, “Sorry honey. We already promised Dylan we’d help with his car payment.”

Or, “We don’t want to make the others feel bad by making a big deal about your grades. Be humble.” And me, I helped constantly. When Megan and her husband were behind on their mortgage three winters ago, I pulled $3,500 out of my own emergency savings and wired it.

When my parents’ water heater died, I put $1,800 on my credit card. When Dylan flunked out of community college and needed a fresh start, I bought him tools so he could start a little handyman thing. He lost half of them in two months.

On top of that, every first of the month, like clockwork, $600 went from my checking into my parents’ account. “Just until we get over this hump,” my dad said four years ago. I kept telling myself it was family and that it would come back around.

I thought that when it was Mia’s turn, they’d show up for her. I should have known better. Two months before the bank incident, Megan called me while I was waiting in the taxi queue at Logan.

“Good news,” she said. “Dylan and Ashley picked a date.” “For what?” I asked, already knowing.

“The wedding, seriously,” she laughed. “June next year. We’re booking the waterfront venue. It’s like 30 grand, but you only get married once, right?”

I whistled. “That’s a lot of money, Meg.” “It’s a family event,” she said. “We’ll all chip in. Mom and Dad are putting in 10. You’ve got Mia’s college thing. You can help with a big chunk.”

“Mia’s college fund is for Mia,” I said, automatic. “She’s applying to MIT. That’s not cheap.” Megan snorted.

“MIT, Larry? Be serious. That’s like movie stuff. She’ll probably end up at state with everyone else. And even if she does get in, that’s what loans are for. Dylan needs this now.”

That was the first time I said no. “I’ll throw in for the rehearsal dinner,” I told her. “Maybe five, six grand max. But I’m not touching Mia’s fund. It’s not negotiable.”

She went quiet. “I see. Wow,” she said. “Good to know where we stand. Your niece and nephew will remember this.”

“You know my daughter will too,” I said. They’ve been punishing me for that ever since with little digs at dinner. There were comments about me hoarding money and jokes about taxi drivers pretending they’re rich.

The monthly $600 suddenly felt less like help and more like tribute. Then Mia’s MIT acceptance came in. We were in the kitchen when she opened her email on the old laptop with the cracked corner.

Her hands were shaking as she read. Then she looked at me and whispered, “I got in, Dad.” I hugged her so tight she squeaked.

We drove straight to my parents’ house. I thought, stupidly, they’d be proud. My mom’s first question was, “Is that expensive?”

My dad asked, “You sure she’s not setting herself up for disappointment? Places like that are for rich kids.” Megan just said, “Should have convinced her to go to community. Would have fixed the wedding budget.”

I laughed it off, but I shouldn’t have. A week later, my dad called and asked me to meet them at the bank to put Mia’s future on solid footing. I thought maybe they decided to help after all.

Instead, I walked straight into the moment my dad hit confirm on draining more than half of her future. I stepped out of that glass office and into the hallway. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

I dialed the only lawyer I know. His name’s Vic. I drove him to the airport once during a snowstorm and we got stuck in traffic for an hour.

We talked the whole time. He gave me his card and said, “If you ever need anything legal and don’t want to get burned, call me. Friends and family rate for cabbies.”

I’d never called until that day. He picked up on the second ring. “Larry, everything okay?” “No,” I said. “I think my parents just stole my kid’s college fund.”

I gave him the fast version: the account, the transfer, and the fact that I’d seen my dad click. “Where are you right now?” he asked. “Still at the bank.”