Lacey’s Rules: A Story of Lies, Freedom, and Fighting Back
Some parents have rules. Mine had ultimatums. And not the kind you could talk your way out of.
I was 17 when my dad, Greg, sat me down at the kitchen table with a manila folder and that smug little smile of his—the one that told me this wasn’t a discussion. It was a contract.
“You can go to college on my dime, Lacey,” he said, leaning back in his chair like some kind of king handing down a decree. “But there are conditions.”
And oh, were there conditions.
No grades below an A-minus.
He’d pre-approve every single class.
Weekly check-ins to grill me about syllabi, deadlines, and professor reviews.
My dad sat there, sipping his coffee like this was just another business deal. Like I wasn’t his daughter—just some risky investment he needed to manage.
“Might sound harsh,” he said, shrugging. “But I’m teaching you responsibility.”
What he really meant? Control.
Because my dad didn’t just parent me. He inspected me. He hunted for mistakes like they were proof I was failing.
In middle school, he’d rifle through my backpack like it was a crime scene, searching for crumpled homework or missing assignments like they were evidence of some deep moral flaw.
By high school? It got worse.
He’d email teachers if a grade was posted a day late. Once, he sent me a screenshot of my online portal with a big red circle around a single B.
Subject line: Explain this, Lacey. No dinner until you do.
I didn’t even have time to respond before my phone buzzed with the same demand.
Another time, I got called to the counselor’s office because he accused a teacher of hiding an assignment. The truth? She was just behind on grading. The counselor looked at me with tired sympathy, like she’d seen this before.
So yeah. I knew what I was signing up for.
But college? College was my golden ticket. My one shot at freedom. And like any desperate teenager, I thought—maybe, just maybe—if I proved myself, he’d finally back off.
I tried. I worked my a off.*
I built my college list from scratch, color-coded spreadsheets and all. I wrote draft after draft of essays at the kitchen table, slurping instant ramen while my dad hovered in the living room, not reading my work but making damn sure I was doing it.
My grades were good. Mostly A’s, a few B’s. Honors English. AP Psych. A solid SAT score.
I should have been proud. And part of me was—somewhere deep down, I was singing.
But my body never caught up to that joy.
Because my dad didn’t do celebration.
“You didn’t meet the standard,” he said flatly one night, slamming a folder of my college prep onto the table so hard the roast chicken nearly went flying.
“I’m pulling your college fund, Lacey. A deal’s a deal. You didn’t hold up your end.”
I stared at him. *”Because of a *B* in Chemistry? Seriously?”*
*”I expected *more* from you,”* he snapped. “What have you been doing instead of studying? If I find out you’ve been sneaking around with some boy—”
I didn’t answer. There was no boy. I knew better than to risk my one shot at freedom.
And I had studied. God, I studied.
But that Chem final? It destroyed me.
I didn’t beg. Didn’t cry.
What I felt? Relief.
Because the truth was, I didn’t want to go to college with my dad breathing down my neck. The thought of four more years of spreadsheets and guilt trips made me sick.
If being imperfect meant freedom? Then Greg could keep his money.
“Of course, Dad,” I said calmly, sliding the folder to the edge of the table. “I understand. Want me to reheat the mashed potatoes?”
I walked at graduation with my head high. When people asked about my plans, I smiled.
“Taking some time off… then I’ll figure it out.”
And I did.
I got a job. Applied for financial aid. Swallowed my pride and took out loans.
That first semester? I paid for it myself.
It wasn’t easy. Work-study shifts. Ramen dinners. A bank balance that made me hold my breath every time I swiped my card.
But I had something I hadn’t felt in years: my own life.
My apartment was tiny, but it was mine. No inspections. No spreadsheets. No Greg.
As for my dad?
He lied.
To everyone—family, friends, the mailman—he was the hero of my story. At holidays and barbecues, he’d drop lines like:
“Tuition’s no joke, but I told Lacey I believe in her! How could I not? That kid’s got potential!”
“She’s smart, yeah… but I still check in. Gotta make sure she’s not fooling around with boys!”
He said it like he was proud. Like he’d built the ground I walked on.
I’d sit there, heat crawling up my chest, biting my tongue.
“You already won by walking away,” I’d whisper to myself.
Then came the Fourth of July barbecue.
Aunt Lisa’s annual blowout—flags everywhere, fruit salad in a watermelon bowl, paper plates collapsing under ribs and potato salad.
I’d just finished sophomore year. Passed all my finals. Saved up for fall. I was proud.
Sitting on the patio steps, balancing my plate, I heard Uncle Ray ask my dad:
“Greg, what’s tuition these days? Jordan’s time’s coming, and Lisa and I are sweating.”
My dad chuckled, fork in hand.
*”You don’t wanna know. Between books, fees, and Lacey’s *appetite—”
I didn’t look up.
*”Why ask *him, Uncle Ray?” I said. “I’m the one paying. I’ll give you the real numbers.”
Silence.
Even the kids with sparklers froze.
“She’s joking,” my dad coughed.
“No,” I said, finally meeting his eyes. “He pulled my college fund over a B in Chemistry. Said I didn’t ‘meet the standard.’”
Aunt Lisa’s fork stopped mid-air. *”Wait. He *canceled* your funding over that?”*
*”That wasn’t the *only* reason—”* my dad tried.
“It was,” I cut in. *”But honestly? Best thing that ever happened to me. I’d rather be in debt than *managed.”
“That’s… insane,” my cousin Jordan muttered.
Aunt Lisa leaned back, stunned. *”Greg. You let everyone think you were paying? And the *one* thing Leslie asked before she—”*
She stopped, sighed.
*”The *one* thing your mother wanted was your education taken care of. And this is what you did?”*
My dad’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
For years, he’d rewritten the truth. And no one had challenged him.
Until now.
Later, as everyone moved to the yard for fireworks, I slipped inside for a drink.
The kitchen was quiet, sticky from lemonade spills. I was at the fridge when I heard his footsteps.
*”That was *out of line, Lacey,” he hissed. “You humiliated me.”
I turned slowly, hand on the fridge door.
“No,” I said. *”You humiliated *yourself. I just stopped covering for you.”
His face twisted—the same look he’d give when I was five minutes late.
“You have no idea how hard it is to be a parent,” he spat. “I did what I thought was right. Your mother—”
*”You *punished* me for not being perfect,”* I said. *”You held help over my head like a prize. That’s not parenting, Greg. That’s *power.”
He shook his head, like I was the liar.
“You always twist things. Always make me the villain.”
“Maybe,” I said. *”But *I* paid for every class. I worked for every dollar. So you don’t get to take credit anymore.”*
He stared. Then scoffed. Walked away like none of it happened.
I grabbed my lemonade, rejoined the family—the ones who actually cheered when I made Dean’s List.
Later, as fireworks lit the sky, Jordan handed me a popsicle.
*”That was *badass, Lace.”
“Thanks.”
“Took a lot to say that, huh?”
I watched the explosions of red and gold.
“Nah,” I said. *”Just took *enough. I’m done letting him be the bully in my life.”
Now? My life is quiet.
My apartment’s small. One bedroom, creaky floors, a radiator that hisses like it’s got secrets.
But it’s mine.
Every chipped mug. Every thrifted curtain. Every pot of my mom’s tomato sauce bubbling on the stove.
I open the window, let the summer breeze in.
“Hey, Mom,” I whisper. “I’m making your sauce.”
The wind swirls through like a reply.
“I wish you were here. But I think… you’d be proud.”
I stir the pot, breathing in garlic and basil.
*”I’m staying away from Dad for a while. Not forever. Just… until *I* say so.”*
The sauce simmers. The curtains flutter.
*”I changed my major today. Psychology. I want to help people *understand* themselves. You always said I was good at listening.”*
I lean on the windowsill, watching clouds drift.
“I’ve come a long way, huh?”
The room stays quiet. The sauce waits. The window stays open.
And for the first time in years?
I breathe.