On my eighteenth birthday, I opened my Stanford acceptance letter—and my dad said, “Give it to Jake. You can take out loans.”

traces back to your home.”

Dad’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

I remembered the credit alerts I had ignored because I did not understand them. I remembered being rejected for a basic student checking account until the trust lawyer stepped in. I remembered sleeping in my car while they tried to bury me under debt for Jake.

My voice shook. “You didn’t continue reading …