Part I — The Bad Investment
My name is Francis Townsend, and I’m twenty-two. Two weeks ago, I stood on a graduation stage in front of three thousand people while my parents—the same people who once refused to pay for my education because they didn’t think I was worth the money—sat in the front row with their faces drained of color. They hadn’t come for me.
They came to watch my twin sister graduate. They had no idea I was even in the stadium. They certainly didn’t expect that my name would be the one called to deliver the keynote.
But this story doesn’t begin at commencement. It begins four years earlier, in my parents’ living room, the kind with immaculate furniture that never felt lived in. It begins with my father looking straight at me, in that quiet, confident tone he used when he wanted a decision to sound like a fact.
There are moments you remember the way you remember weather—heat that sticks to your skin, a storm you feel in your bones. That was one of them. And before I take you back there, I’ll tell you this: if you’re reading from somewhere far away, if it’s late where you are or early, if you’ve ever been underestimated by the people who should have protected you, you’ll understand why I’m writing this down the way I am.
Names are real. Feelings are real. The lessons—those are the most real of all.
Now: that summer evening in 2021. The acceptance letters arrived on the same Tuesday afternoon in April. Victoria got into Whitmore University, a prestigious private school with a price tag of $65,000 a year.
I got into Eastbrook State, a solid public university—$25,000 annually. Still expensive, but at least it lived in the realm of possibility. That evening, Dad called a family meeting.
“We need to discuss finances,” he said, settling into his leather armchair like a CEO addressing shareholders. Mom sat on the couch, hands folded tightly in her lap. Victoria stood by the window, already glowing with anticipation.
I sat across from Dad, still clutching my acceptance letter, the paper creased from how many times I’d unfolded and refolded it. “Victoria,” Dad began, “we’ll cover your full tuition at Whitmore. Room, board—everything.”
Victoria squealed.
Mom smiled. Then Dad turned to me. “Francis,” he said, “we’ve decided not to fund your education.”
The words didn’t land right away.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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