The trust fund money—what remained of it, and what my parents had repaid—had grown substantially through careful investment. My grandmother had been an excellent teacher, showing me how to evaluate properties, understand market trends, and make strategic decisions. I owned three rental properties in Austin and had investments in several commercial developments. At twenty-eight years old, I had built the financial foundation my trust fund was supposed to provide, but I had done it myself.
My parents continued their descent into obscurity and financial struggle. My father bounced between sales jobs, never staying anywhere long, his reputation always catching up to him eventually. My mother worked her receptionist job and occasionally tried to sell cosmetics or supplements through multi-level marketing schemes, always chasing the next opportunity that promised easy money. They made their monthly payments to me without fail, terrified of what might happen if they missed even one.
I had not spoken to them in three years, had not responded to birthday cards or holiday messages, had not acknowledged their existence except as a cautionary tale in my presentations. My grandmother approved, though she occasionally suggested that I might consider accepting an apology if they ever offered a genuine one. But I knew they never would. To truly apologize, they would have to accept full responsibility for what they had done, and they were not capable of that kind of honesty.
Then I received a phone call from Patricia, my grandmother’s attorney, who had become my attorney as well. My father had filed for bankruptcy. He was trying to discharge the debt to me as part of his bankruptcy proceedings, claiming it was unsecured and should be eliminated along with his credit card bills and medical expenses.
“Can he do that?” I asked, feeling the old anger flare back to life.
“He can try,” Patricia said. “But we have the settlement agreement, which structures the repayment as restitution for fraud. That is much harder to discharge in bankruptcy. We will fight it, and we will probably win. But it is going to be messy.”
Messy was an understatement. The bankruptcy proceedings dragged on for months, with my father’s attorney arguing that the debt was causing undue hardship, that he had already paid back a substantial amount, that he should be given a fresh start. My attorney countered with evidence of his continued poor financial decisions, his refusal to downsize his lifestyle appropriately, his lack of genuine remorse.
The bankruptcy judge was a woman in her sixties who listened to both sides with an expression that gave nothing away. When it came time for testimony, I took the stand and told my story once more—this time under oath and with my father sitting just a few feet away. He would not look at me, kept his eyes fixed on the table in front of him, his hands clenched together.
“Mr. Brennan,” the judge said when it was his turn to testify. “Why should this court discharge a debt that arose from your theft from your own daughter?”
“It was not theft,” he said, his voice barely audible. “It was mismanagement. I was trying to grow the money, trying to give her more than she started with. I made mistakes.”
