ducation fund on weddings, and your plan is… what? That someday my sisters will pay me back when they decide I matter?”
“It’s not just about you,” Dad snapped. “We have three children. We had to balance all of your needs. Your sisters had pressing, time-sensitive expenses. Your education can still be handled with loans, scholarships, community college—”
“Did they know?” I interrupted. “Victoria and Ashley—did they know you were using my trust fund for their weddings?”
The pause was all the answer I needed.
“They knew it was family money,” Dad said carefully.
“That’s not what I asked.” I stared at him. “Did they know you were taking it out of my trust—the one Grandpa set up specifically for my education?”
Mom’s mouth tightened. “They might have been aware that we were reallocating some resources,” she said. “It’s all family. We’ve always said everything we have is for all of you.”
They knew.
My sisters knew that when they picked flower arrangements and venue packages and videographers, the money paying for it had my name on it. They’d looked at my future like it was a piggy bank they could smash open for confetti.
Something in me went very, very still.
I closed my laptop, not slamming it, just shutting it carefully. I stood up, pushed my chair in.
“Where are you going?” Mom asked, her voice flicking to panic.
“To my room,” I said. “Thanks for dinner.”
I walked down the hallway feeling like I was underwater, sound muffled, heartbeat too loud. In my room, I locked the door, sat on my bed, and stared at the wall for a solid minute.
Then I opened my laptop again.
Not to look at schools.
To look up trust law.
At first, it was just rage-fueled curiosity. Could they actually do this? Was it legal? I typed in phrases like can parents use trust fund for weddings and trustee breach education trust. The more I read, the clearer the picture got.
When someone sets up a trust for a minor with specific terms—like “for post-secondary education”—the trustees, in this case my parents, have a legal obligation. A fiduciary duty. They don’t get to decide that money would “actually” be better used for Instagram-ready vineyard weddings and granite-countertop condos. If they use the money for something outside those specific terms, that’s not just shady; it can be a breach of fiduciary duty.
And that’s actionable.
The engineer part of my brain kicked in. Identify the problem. Gather data. Build the model. Test it. In this case, the model was a legal case file.
I needed proof. Trust documents. Bank statements. Anything that showed my parents had taken money earmarked for education and spent it on “rustic chic” centerpieces and monogrammed champagne flutes.
Sunday morning, my parents went to church. They asked if I was coming; I told them I had homework. Mom sighed like I was breaking her heart. Dad muttered something about priorities.
As soon as the garage door rumbled shut, I headed for Dad’s home office.
The room always smelled faintly like printer ink and whatever cologne sample he’d most recently decided made him smell like “a closer.” The walls were lined with mismatched filing cabinets—metal, beige, dented in places from moves and years of use.
If there was one thing my dad was good at, it was paperwork. He kept everything. Labels, receipts, tax returns, warranties. He had backup copies of documents that already existed in three different digital forms.
I went straight to the filing cabinet labeled ESTATES.
It didn’t take long to find the folder with Grandpa’s name. “Estate – Robert Senior.” The trust documents were inside, neatly clipped, with a summary page on top.
I read the terms slowly, line by line.
Initial deposit: $50,000 per grandchild, invested in moderate-risk mutual funds, managed by a financial advisor until each grandchild turned eighteen.
Funds to be used exclusively for post-secondary education expenses, including but not limited to tuition, fees, books, and reasonable living expenses while enrolled in an accredited educational institution.
The word exclusively stared up at me.
Not “ideally.” Not “primarily.” Exclusively.
I took pictures of every page with my phone, double-checking each image before moving on. Then I started flipping through the rest of the folder.
There they were: bank statements. Years of them. At first, the balances rose slowly, little bumps as the market did its thing. Then, about three years before my eighteenth birthday, I saw the first big withdrawal. Tens of thousands gone in one transfer.
I checked the date. Two months before Victoria’s wedding.
Another large withdrawal the following year.
Around Ashley’s wedding.
Another cluster lined up with the condo purchases my sisters had posted on Instagram. “Homeowners!” Victoria had captioned one photo, standing in front of a beige townhome, keys raised.
Underneath, Mom had commented, So proud of our girl! Hard work pays off!
I made another timeline in a spreadsheet. Dates of withdrawals. Dates of weddings. Dates of condo-closing photos. Every line that connected my trust to their milestones hardened something inside me.
Next, I dug through files for anything about my sisters’ trusts. Their accounts showed the same pattern: big withdrawals right before big life events. It looked like my parents had drained their trusts too, then recycled that money back as “gifts” and “help.”
The difference?
They were adults when it happened. They could’ve asked questions. They could’ve refused. They didn’t.
I had everything I needed: proof of the trust terms, proof of how the money had been used, proof that it wasn’t some misunderstanding about “college costs” getting mixed in with wedding planners. It was deliberate.
Now I needed someone who knew how to weaponize that proof.
On Monday, during a break between my last week of classes and my shift at the auto-parts store, I sat in the corner of a coffee shop with free Wi-Fi and called law firms. I searched “trust litigation attorney Seattle” and worked my way down the list.
The first two firms were too busy or brushed me off when they heard I was eighteen.
The third one transferred me three times before dropping the call.
The fourth firm’s receptionist listened to my thirty-second summary and said, “I’m going to put you on hold for just a second, okay?” When she came back, she said, “We can’t take new clients until August, but let me recommend someone. His name is James Patterson. No relation to the author. He’s excellent with trust cases.”
She gave me his number.
I called. The receptionist at Patterson’s office sounded cool and professional, the kind of voice that made you sit up straighter.
“Law office of James Patterson,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I, uh… I think my parents illegally used my education trust fund to pay for my sisters’ weddings,” I said, trying to sound less insane than that sentence felt. “I have the trust documents and bank statements.”
There was a pause, then she said, “Can you be here Wednesday at three?”
Patterson’s office was downtown, in one of those mid-rise buildings that always smell like coffee and toner. The waiting room had leather chairs and a wall of law books that I suspect no one had actually cracked open in years. Degrees hung on the wall—University of Washington, Stanford Law.
When he walked in, I understood why people trusted him with their messes. He was maybe fifty, salt-and-pepper hair, tailored suit that fit without screaming “look at me,” calm eyes. The kind of guy who looked like he did everything slowly and deliberately.
“Finn?” he said, extending a hand.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“We’re not in court yet,” he said with the hint of a smile. “You can call me James. Come on in.”
His office had a window looking out over the city, framed diplomas, and a single picture on his desk of two kids in soccer uniforms. No motivational posters. No fake plants.
I laid everything out on the table between us—printed copies of the trust documents I’d already backed up in three places, the bank statements, the timeline, the screenshots of my sisters’ condo posts.
He read in silence for about ten minutes, flipping pages, occasionally tapping his pen against the desk.
Finally, he leaned back, steepled his fingers, and said three words that sent a rush of cold satisfaction through me.
“This is actionable.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I asked.
“It means,” he said, “that your parents, as trustees, appear to have breached their fiduciary duty. The trust documents are clear. Funds exclusively for post-secondary education. They used them for weddings and down payments instead. That’s textbook breach. You can sue them for the amount that should have been in your trust, plus potentially additional damages.”
He pulled out a yellow legal pad and started doing math.
“Fifty-thousand-dollar initial deposit in 1998,” he murmured. “Moderate-risk investments. Let’s say an average of six percent annual returns over eighteen years. That lands us around $142,000, give or take. Current balance is $8,472. So roughly $134,000 missing.”
He looked up.
“That’s what they stole,” he said plainly.
The number sat in the air between us.
I knew it. I’d run similar calculations myself. But hearing someone else say it—out loud, in a law office with real degrees on the wall—made it solid.
“What about my sisters?” I asked. “They got the weddings. The condos. The texts make it pretty clear they knew the money was coming from my fund.”
He flipped to the screenshots.
“Talk to the venue. Can you access Finn’s trust fund?” he read aloud. “He’s only fifteen, he won’t even know. And here—Can we use some of Finn’s fund for the down payment? I’ll pay him back eventually.”
He nodded.
“If we can show they knew the source of the funds and knew it violated the trust terms, we can include them as defendants for unjust enrichment,” he said. “Meaning they benefited from the breach and can be ordered to return what they gained.”
He looked back at me.
“Going after your parents is one thing,” he said. “Including your sisters will make this… complicated. Emotionally. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
I thought about Victoria’s Instagram posts, the way she’d captioned a photo of her venue, Can’t believe my dream is coming true! So grateful for my parents making this possible! I thought about Ashley’s text: He’s only fifteen, he won’t even know.
“Yes,” I said. “They knew. They didn’t care. I want them included.”
He nodded once.
“In that case, we file a complaint naming your parents as primary defendants for breach of fiduciary duty and your sisters as secondary defendants for unjust enrichment,” he said. “We’ll demand the full amount that should have been in your trust plus legal fees and potential punitive damages. With this level of documentation, I’m confident. The real question is whether they’ll want to drag this through trial or settle.”
“What does it cost?” I asked. “To hire you, I mean.”
His mouth quirked a little.
“Smart question,” he said. “I work on a retainer plus hourly for this type of case. For you, given your age and the strength of the evidence, I’ll take a reduced retainer. Five thousand up front, then we’ll bill against that. If we win, we’ll seek to recover legal fees as part of the judgment.”
Five thousand dollars. Almost half of what I’d saved in three years of washing dishes, bussing tables, and stocking shelves.
I didn’t hesitate.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
Writing that check felt like lighting a fuse.
Patterson moved quickly. Within two weeks, the complaint was drafted and filed. The lawsuit named Robert and Linda, my parents, as trustees who’d misused funds, and Victoria and Ashley as beneficiaries of that misuse. The numbers were all there in black and white. Dates. Amounts. Screenshots.
They were served on a Tuesday afternoon.
I was at work when my phone started buzzing with unknown numbers and then familiar ones.
Dad. Mom. Victoria. Ashley.
I ignored all of them.
Patterson had been clear: once the lawsuit was filed, I shouldn’t talk to them about it directly. Everything needed to go through the attorneys.
Later, Patterson forwarded me an email from the process server.
“Defendant Robert answered the door,” it said. “Became visibly upset upon receiving documents. Verbally exclaimed, ‘Are you kidding me?’ Neighbors appeared at windows.”
At home that night, the house was strangely quiet. My parents’ bedroom door was shut. The TV wasn’t on. No one called me down for dinner.
Text messages started coming.
Dad: We need to talk about this immediately. What you’re doing is destroying this family.
Mom: Please call us. We can work this out privately. You don’t need lawyers. We’re your parents.
Victoria: Are you serious right now? You’re suing me because Mom and Dad helped with my wedding? What is wrong with you?
Ashley: I can’t believe you’d do this. This is going to ruin everything. Hope you’re happy.
I screenshotted every message and emailed them to Patterson.
“Good,” he replied. “They’re rattled. That’s useful.”
Things escalated fast after that. My parents hired a lawyer through one of Dad’s business contacts. He wasn’t a trust specialist, just a general-practice guy used to negotiating car-accident settlements and drafting wills. Our side filed formal discovery requests—demands for all financial records related to the trust, any communication about using the funds, and anything documenting their decision-making.
Their lawyer tried to argue that the requests were “overly broad” and “intrusive” and that this was a “private family matter.”
The judge wasn’t having it.
At the first hearing, she listened to both sides, then looked over her glasses at their attorney.
“Your clients are trustees accused of misusing a minor’s education trust,” she said. “That is not a ‘private family matter’ in the eyes of the court. It is a legal one. Discovery is granted. Produce the documents within thirty days.”
In our kitchen, my parents pretended nothing was wrong.
They still went to work. They still went to church. They still posted throwback photos on Facebook like we were a Hallmark movie.
They didn’t talk to me unless they had to.
When they did, the tone shifted between icy politeness and attempts at guilt.
One night, Mom cornered me in the hall while Dad was in the shower.
“We could’ve talked about this as a family,” she said, eyes watery. “You didn’t have to humiliate us like this. Do you have any idea what this is doing to us? To your grandparents?”
“Grandpa’s dead,” I said. “And if he knew what you did with his money, he’d be in that courtroom sitting on my side.”
Her face twisted.
“You’re so ungrateful,” she whispered. “After everything we’ve done for you.”
“You spent $134,000 that was supposed to be for my education,” I said. My voice was calm. It scared even me. “You didn’t do that for me. You did that for them.”
“You’re tearing this family apart,” she said.
“No,” I said. “You tore it apart when you stole from your kid and hoped he wouldn’t notice.”
I walked away before she could cry harder.
The next month was a swirl of paperwork. Patterson’s office became my second home. I’d go there after classes or before my shift and sit across from him while he walked me through what was happening.
“This is their response to the complaint,” he’d say, sliding documents across the table. “They’re arguing the trust was used for ‘family support’ and that marriages are part of that. The problem for them is that the trust language is very specific. Judges like specificity.”
He showed me drafts of our motions, our responses, our exhibits.
“It’s like building a machine,” he said once, maybe sensing that would resonate. “Every piece of evidence is a part. If it’s placed correctly, the whole thing runs smoothly. If they try to kick the machine, it hurts them more than us.”
The real turning point came during discovery, when their side had to hand over digital communications—emails, texts—related to the trust.
Patterson called me into his office and handed me a printed packet.
“These,” he said, “are from your sisters’ phones. Their attorney tried to claim the messages weren’t relevant, but the judge disagreed.”
The first one was from Victoria to Mom, sent two months before her wedding.
Talked to the venue, she wrote. They need the final payment next week. Can you access Finn’s trust fund for it? He’s only fifteen. He won’t even know.
My stomach clenched.
Further down, another one.
The florist says the upgraded package is another $6K. Maybe we can shift more from Finn’s? He doesn’t even care about college that much.
Then Ashley’s messages.
The condo down payment is $20K. Can we use some of Finn’s fund? I’ll pay him back eventually. Promise.
And later, after Mom replied, We might be able to move some things around.
You’re the best, Ashley replied. He owes us for all the trouble he causes anyway lol.
I remembered what “trouble” meant. It meant existing without being ornamental.
Patterson watched my face as I flipped through the pages.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” I said honestly. “But also… yeah. This is exactly what I thought it was.”
“This is intent,” he said. “And knowledge. They knew whose money it was. That’s very important.”
Depositions came next.
If you’ve never watched your parents answer questions under oath about how they stole from you, I don’t recommend it—but I also kind of do.
They were held in a neutral conference room, fluorescent lights buzzing, a carafe of stale coffee on the side table. My parents sat across from Patterson, their attorney beside them, a court reporter at the end of the table tap-tap-tapping away.
I wasn’t required to attend, but Patterson strongly suggested I read the transcripts later instead of sitting in the room and possibly reacting. So I did. I picked up the printed transcripts from his office, took them to the quiet corner of the campus library, and read them cover to cover.
Dad’s deposition was three hours long. He tried so hard to sound reasonable that it almost became a parody.
“I always intended to replenish the funds before Finn turned eighteen,” he said. “Unexpected expenses occurred. We had to make choices.”
“What unexpected expenses?” Patterson asked.
“Well, the market, cost of living, the girls’ needs…”
“Can you identify specific unexpected expenses that required you to withdraw tens of thousands from your son’s education trust?” Patterson asked.
“We live in an expensive area,” Dad said, sounding flustered. “You don’t understand what it’s like raising three kids these days.”
“I’m raising two,” Patterson said evenly. “And this isn’t about ‘these days.’ It’s about terms in a trust you signed. Did you or did you not understand that the funds were to be used exclusively for post-secondary education?”
Dad hesitated.
“Yes,” he said finally.
“And did you use those funds for your daughters’ weddings and condo down payments?”
“Yes,” he said, barely audible.
Mom’s transcript was harder to read, because there’s still a part of me that wants my mother to be better than she is.
“I thought it was what Grandpa would have wanted,” she said at one point. “For the family to be together. Weddings are important. I didn’t think Finn would mind helping his sisters.”
“The trust did not say ‘family support,’” Patterson reminded her. “It said ‘exclusively for post-secondary education.’ Did you consider that you were taking away his ability to attend college without debt?”
She cried so much the court reporter noted “witness crying” multiple times.
My sisters’ depositions were different flavors of ugly.
Victoria tried to act clueless until Patterson slid the enlarged printouts of her texts across the table. When he asked why she’d written He’s only fifteen, he won’t even know, she said, “I don’t recall,” so many times it started to sound like a broken toy.
Ashley tried to justify it. She said something like, “It’s all family money anyway. Mom and Dad always said what’s theirs is ours.”
Patterson asked, “Did you ever intend to pay Finn back?”
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“When?” he asked.
“Eventually,” she said.
He let the silence sit for a full five seconds before writing something down.
By December, their lawyer started pushing hard for a settlement.
Patterson called me in for a meeting.
“They’re offering to repay the full estimated trust amount,” he said. “$134,000, plus six-percent interest over five years. That’s about $155,000. They’d mortgage the house, cut expenses, and your parents want your sisters released from liability. They’re offering to take full legal blame in exchange for you dropping your claims against Victoria and Ashley.”
“Of course they are,” I said.
Patterson studied me.
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