When Greg suggested using Ava’s college fund to cover his daughter Becca’s wedding expenses, I sat there in disbelief. That money was more than just savings—it was a promise from Ava’s late father, David. A promise that she’d have choices, security, and a future free from the burdens he had faced. And now Greg, with Becca silently smirking in the background, thought it reasonable to dip into that legacy for flowers, dresses, and a catered dinner? I kept my expression neutral, but a plan began forming immediately.
When I married Greg six years ago, I knew blending families would be complicated. Ava was ten, still grieving her father. Greg’s daughter Becca was twenty, cool, distant, and perfectly polite in the coldest way possible. She never made an effort to connect with me or Ava, brushing off every gesture and responding to kindness with disdain. We were guests in the house she believed belonged only to her and her father.
Last Wednesday, over dinner, Greg set down his fork with the kind of overly calm demeanor that signals something awful is coming. He spoke about Becca’s upcoming wedding and mentioned he had already contributed $10,000—but the event needed another $30,000. And then, like it was nothing, he suggested, “We could just take it from Ava’s college fund. She’s only sixteen. Family helps family, right?”
The room went silent. Even Ava paused, mid-sentence, her hopeful chatter about AP classes and university dreams trailing into nothing. I stared at Greg, unsure if I had heard him right.
“You want to use the fund David left for Ava—for a wedding?” I asked, my voice even.
Greg waved it off. “Come on. She’s smart, she’ll figure it out. Who even pays full price for college these days?”
Becca looked up from her phone for the first time that evening, arms folded, smirk in place. Had they planned this together?
I said I’d think about it. And they bought it.
Two days later, I sat across from them and told them they could have the money—on one condition. Greg’s eyes lit up. Then I slid a contract across the table. “You’ll pay back every cent within one year. Signed, dated, notarized.”
Becca’s expression turned to stone. Greg laughed awkwardly, then realized I wasn’t kidding.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he snapped. “It’s a wedding, not a loan!”
“If it’s important enough to ask for my daughter’s future,” I replied, “it’s important enough to repay.”
Their protests spilled over each other, but I didn’t budge. Then I pulled out a second document. “If you don’t sign the contract, that’s fine. But this”—I placed divorce papers on the table—“is my response. If you won’t protect Ava’s future, I will. Alone, if I have to.”
Greg stared, stunned. “You’d divorce me over this?”
“I’d protect my daughter over anything. That’s what parents do.”
He moved out two weeks later.
Becca’s wedding still happened, though it was smaller and less extravagant—funded by her mother and whatever Greg could gather. Ava and I weren’t invited, but that didn’t matter.
The night Greg left, Ava hugged me tightly, eyes glossy with emotion. “Thank you for choosing me,” she whispered.
“I’ll always choose you,” I told her. “That’s what mothers do.”
David’s gift still sits untouched in Ava’s college fund, quietly growing, waiting for the moment she steps into her future. A future filled with possibility, not sacrifice. Because that money was never meant for centerpieces and champagne—it was meant for her dreams. And I’ll make sure it stays that way.