When I turned eighteen, I thought I was stepping into the future my mother had dreamed for me. Before she passed, she left behind a trust — her final act of love to give me a start in life.

For years, that promise carried me through loss and loneliness in a house that never truly felt like home after my dad remarried.

So when I finally asked about the money on my birthday, I expected hope — a door opening to independence. Instead, I was told it was gone. Spent. Without my knowledge, without my consent. In that instant, it felt like I lost her all over again.