Sometimes, there's just not enough to go around.

I grew up in a very poor family. My grandfather had money, but he was the only one, when I was young, that earned a decent living. My uncles and parents were hippies, and we lived on a dirt farm.

When my parents got married, they moved out into a place of their own. My grandfather spoiled me. He took me out for fancy dinners. He bought me toys. He gave me money when my parents weren't looking.

I always hid it well. If they found it, into the household pot it would go, to be used for food, or rent, or something besides a new set of paints.

I grew up poor.

When I was a teenager, my grandfather died. He left a small amount of money to me in his will, along with his treasured car. A Cadillac, only a few years old.

I wasn't allowed to get my license. The fees. My parents wouldn't pay the fees, or take me to the DMV, or sign my permit papers.

Eventually, I scrubbed enough dishes to get the privilege of fifteen dollars and a signature. My father, who has always had a good sense of humor and a slow temper, was appointed to teach me to drive.

My mother, being more high-strung, opted out after one lesson, which she spent pressing her right foot against the floorboards and thrusting her arm out in front of me.

I learned to drive, got a part-time job to pay for gas and insurance, and got my license. My insurance was paid for a year from my job.

I wasn't allowed to drive more than ten miles from home. Remember, this is dirt farm country. That meant I could go to work, or school, or 7-11.

I had a good friend who lived twenty-five miles away.

They'd never know.

I got two flat tires.

I never drove that car again. When I finally got home, my mother took the keys. "This is our car now." She said. They sold it right away. Neither one of them drove it. It had been my grandfather's baby, and they'd thrown it away.

I'd never been given my small inheritance, either.

A few months after this, I was grounded. My mother decided that I would have to pay rent if I wanted to live at home.

I was 16.

I moved out. I kept a bad, low-paying part-time job, and went to school for a few more months. I eventually dropped out and got my GED on the same day. At the time, I was furious. I hated them. They had stolen from me!

They had stolen my car, my home, and my money. Money!

Money was the most precious thing in the world. This was how I was raised. I was raised in a poor family.

I was

• 1
• 2
• next page >>

---

Add your voice

Know something about Greed in family: When blood isn't thicker than money?
We want to hear your view. Write now!