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

“Good. Go back to the office. Don’t yell. Don’t accuse. Ask to speak with the branch manager privately. Say you want to put the transfer on hold due to possible fraud. Use that word: fraud. Then put me on speaker.”

My legs felt like they were made of rubber, but I went back in the office. Megan was scrolling her phone. My dad was making small talk with the manager, and my mom was digging around in her purse like she was looking for a mint.

“Hey,” I said, forcing my voice not to shake. “Before you finalize anything, I want to talk to the manager alone.” Megan rolled her eyes.

“Oh, here we go. Don’t be dramatic, Larry. We already—” “I need to talk to you alone,” I repeated, looking at the manager. Maybe it was my face, or maybe it was the word fraud I’d already dropped at the desk.

Whatever it was, the manager swallowed and nodded. My parents and Megan shuffled out muttering. I put Vic on speaker.

“Hi,” he said smoothly. “This is attorney Vic Patel. Mr. Russo believes an unauthorized transfer has been initiated from his daughter’s educational account. We need that transfer frozen immediately and the account documentation pulled up.”

The manager’s eyes went wide. “Of course, just a moment.” He clicked a few times then frowned at the account and adjusted his glasses. “Ah, this is a custodial 529 plan, sir. Owner: Larry Russo. Beneficiary: Mia Russo. I’m not seeing any co-owners.”

“What about authorized users?” Vic asked. The manager scrolled. “We have Mr. Russo listed for online access and Mia as view-only. That’s it.”

I stared at him. “Then how did my father just transfer $52,000?” “Oh,” the manager said softly. “That wasn’t completed. It’s a queued internal request. I assumed—”

He trailed off. “Assumed what?” Vic’s voice sharpened. The manager said, “That your father was acting on your behalf. He came in last week with a limited power of attorney form. Said it was to help manage things because you drive long hours and aren’t always reachable.”

Taking Back Control and the Cold Truth

My stomach dropped. The POA—I remembered now. After I got rear-ended by a drunk driver last year and was in the hospital overnight, my dad shoved a stack of papers at me just in case.

I signed without reading. He said it was so he could help with bills if something happened to me. I thought it was for emergencies; turned out it was for stealing.

Vic spoke again, calm and precise. “That document is now revoked,” he said, “effective immediately. Mr. Russo does not consent to any transfers out of that 529 account except to pay tuition directly to an educational institution or qualified expenses.”

“You will freeze any pending transfers. Flag his profile and note that anyone claiming to act under that POA is unauthorized. I’ll email you a revocation in writing within the hour.”

The manager nodded so fast his pen almost flew out of his hand. “Yes, sir. I’m canceling the transfer right now. The funds will not leave the account. I’m very sorry, Mr. Russo.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

The money was still there. My parents just didn’t know it yet. “Next step,” Vic said, his tone softening now that the immediate fire was out. “Larry, you and I are going to clean house today.”

We sat in Vic’s tiny office over a pizza place that smelled like garlic and burned cheese. I still had my taxi radio on low at my belt, the dispatcher’s voice crackling occasionally. On the table between us were the POA my dad had tricked me into signing and statements from the college fund.

There were also statements from the checking account where my monthly $600 to my parents came from. I saw papers from a family savings account my parents had asked me to co-own for vacation plans a few years ago. Vic read while I stared at my hands.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Here’s the good news. Your dad got lazy. The POA is broad but it can be revoked, and he didn’t actually complete the transfer before we froze it. The 529 is safe. Legally, it’s your asset, not his. He has zero claim.”

“And the bad news?” I asked. “The bad news is they were absolutely planning to siphon this,” he said. “And they’ve already been dipping into other places.”

He turned one of the bank printouts toward me. It was a joint savings account with my name and my dad’s name. Six months ago, the balance was $31,257. It now had $14,000 in it.

“Where did it go?” I asked, even though I knew. He pointed at the transfers. There were payments to Megan’s wedding savings, cash withdrawals, and credit card payments in their names.

“They’ve been bleeding you dry, Larry.” My cheeks burned with embarrassment, anger, and a weird numb sadness. “I let them add me to that account to help them save,” I said quietly.

“I thought if my name was on it, they’d take it seriously. They said it made them feel secure.” “It made them feel like you were a walking ATM,” Vic said. “So, here’s what we’re going to do.”

For the next hour, we went step by step. I signed a POA revocation, and we scanned and emailed it to the bank. I filled out forms to remove my dad as co-owner on anything tied to my name.

We moved every cent from the joint savings into a brand new account in only my name. I logged into my banking app and canceled the automatic $600 transfer to my parents. We put a multi-factor lock on Mia’s 529.

The bank added a note: no third-party access. Written authorization from the owner was required, and staff must verify with a security phrase. Last, we called the waterfront wedding venue Megan had bragged about.

Turns out they used my good credit to secure the booking. They had put the deposit on a card I’d opened with my dad years ago for emergencies. The manager at the venue recognized my name.

“Oh, Mr. Russo, we have a $10,000 deposit from your card on file.” “Not anymore you don’t,” I said. “That card was used without my authorization. I’m disputing the charge. Consider the booking canceled.”

Vic took over from there, speaking in that calm legal voice again. By the time he was done, the venue had agreed to release the date and process the dispute. I hung up.

Somewhere, Megan’s dream wedding just evaporated, and I still hadn’t raised my voice once. The first text came before I even left Vic’s office from my dad. “Where did the money go? The wedding account is showing a problem. Call me.”

Then my mom: “Your father is panicking. The bank says the transfer didn’t go through. Fix this.” Then Megan: “What did you do? They said the venue is canceled. Are you serious?”

I didn’t reply. I went back to my car, sat in the driver’s seat, and just sat. The city moved around me with buses, bikers, and honking.