Trust Fund Troubles

Britt

Ah, Slammers fans, you totally missed me. I knew it. Alas, I've returned to narrate another story happening within my humble berg, where the cocktails are as stirred as the family drama. Tonight, I whisper tales not just of revelry, but of revelations too bitter for any toast. Here, under the gleam of rented chandeliers and forced smiles, Britt Jensen navigates the murky waters of familial expectations with the grace of a seasoned sailor in stormy seas. Grab a brew, pull up a chair, and let's raise a glass to the courage it takes to face the music when the tune is out of key. Remember, here in my little corner of the world, even the sweetest celebrations can have a bite.

Playlist: "She Works Hard For The Money" by Donna Summer

September…

I straighten my dress, check my makeup, and rearrange my hair for at least the fourth time. It's possible that I'm stalling. Dad rented out the whole bar for Montgomery's birthday—or Montie as I like to refer to him in the recesses of my mind—and I won't be able to take two steps without bumping into someone who will be compelled to ask a question about my idiotic brother. My options will be as follows: bullshit for a few minutes about how Montgomery is still finding himself or be honest and say that his current life mission changes every time he accepts a new quest in one of his many video games.

Neither option is good. Praising my slacker baby brother is enough to give me hives, but if I tell the truth, I sound like a bitch. Or, worse, like I'm jealous. Of what, pray tell? Not his crappy college GPA that barely earned him a diploma. Not his drive, because he has none. Definitely not the fact that he moved back into his childhood bedroom. I'm pretty sure my mom still buys him hand lotion and Kleenex. He has no friends. No goals. No life.

And hey, if that works for him, go with God. To me, that sounds like a personal hell.

I'm almost braced to confront the world again when the door to the women's room swings open. One of my mom's cousins, Amanda, steps inside. When she sees me, her face lights up.

"Britt!" She holds her arms out wide and rushes over. "Gosh, look at you! You're gorgeous! I remember when you were this tall…" She waves vaguely at hip height before pulling me into a hug and kissing my cheek.

"So good to see you." Amanda's the kind of relative that I'm neutral toward. I don't see her often enough to have specific fond memories of her, but we also don't have baggage.

After a brief squeeze, she steps away, eying me appraisingly. "So…"

Here it comes. The questions about Montgomery. I square my shoulders and school my expression into a friendly smile. My non-answer about my brother's life choices is locked and loaded. Because in my world, if a human being possesses a penis, that automatically makes that human being more important.

"When are you going to give your mom grandkids?" Amanda asks.

I can practically hear the mechanical voice from one of Montgomery's games shouting, Critical Hit! as the question lands. This is the other thing that drives me crazy. I have a flourishing career. Lots of friends. Goals for the short and long term. And yet, this is the question that people who only know me from small talk at family functions just love to ask. As if I owe my mom babies to play with. If she wanted to be around infants that badly, she could be a babysitter. Why do people think they deserve access to weirdly personal information about my uterus?

"You're so gorgeous, I bet the guys are just throwing themselves at you," Amanda adds, failing to read the room on an epic level.

"They sure try." I briefly envision men dropping to the ground everywhere I turn and hopping from guy to guy The-Floor-Is-Lava-style. Then I fantasize about speaking my mind to Amanda. It's none of your business, I could say. Or, I'm not interested in letting anyone nut south of the border without a condom right now, thanks for asking. If I was feeling extra-spicy, I could go with, Why don't you ask Montgomery what he's doing with his jizz, since he doesn't have anything else going on?

But I know, from a combination of common sense and bitter experience, that answering this question honestly offends people. Because asking women questions about their sexual health isn't impolite, but setting a boundary is. One interaction at a time, I'm determined to challenge these norms, to empower women to own and voice their boundaries without apology or hesitation.

"Playing hard to get, I see?" Amanda sizes me up. "I guess you're a little young for your biological clock to be ticking, but be careful, honey. Wait too long and all the good men will be taken."

With those words of advice, she sails past me and into the stall. Great, now even my hiding spot is ruined. I check my face in the mirror one last time and return to the throng.

Birthday parties with the family. Gotta love ‘em, right? At least there's an open bar to go along with my first-born, high-achieving daughter drama.

Montgomery is hanging out with Dad and a cloud of Dad's work buddies, yucking it up like he's one of them. As if he's ever had to work a day in his life. Mom made him get a haircut and drove him to the tailor to make sure his suit was perfectly fitted. I have to admit, my brother cleans up good, but the fact that our mother needs to manage his personal care routine is just sad.

I'm about to head to the bar for some liquid relaxer—screw courage, I need to be sedated enough to let the comments slide off me like water off a duck's back or whatever the saying is. I'm an expert at knowing which hill to die on, and my sword isn't sharp enough to kill me cleanly when it comes to the ineptitude of my only brother. Then I hear the two words that stop me in my tracks.

Trust fund.

Excuse me? I double back to stand near the little group and listen in.

"—wish I'd started investing when I was twenty-five," one of Dad's friends is saying. "Savings is all well and good, but if you put your money behind the right index fund, it'll serve you well down the line."

"I've got a few investments in mind already," Montgomery says. "I can't wait to get started."

I stare. On one hand, I can only imagine the kind of investments my brother thinks would be worthwhile, but that's not the biggest issue. If Montgomery wants to use his trust fund to fuel some inevitable video game startups, let him.

In five years. When he turns thirty. Because that's when we're supposed to get access to that money.

What. The actual. Fuck.

I plaster on a sweet smile and sidle over to my father. Placing my hand on his elbow, I look around at the other guests. "Dad, do you have a moment?"

My father seems surprised, but he doesn't protest as I lead him away. We don't go far, but this isn't a conversation I want to have in front of an audience. I guide Dad out to the coat room, turn to him, and cross my arms.

"Explain," I say, dropping all the niceties. Internally, I'm fuming, but I want to make sure I understand the situation before I go off like a firecracker.

Dad lifts one shoulder. "What's the problem, Britt? You haven't told me why you dragged me away from the perfectly enjoyable conversation I was having."

"It's about Montgomery and his trust fund. Did you really give him early access to that money?" I can feel the heat rising up my neck, even though I'm still fighting to keep my temper under control. Hear him out. You don't know the whole story yet.

Dad adjusts his cuffs. "He's twenty-five, darling. That's hardly early. And, to be frank, I'm not sure it's any of your business."

There is it. The spark that lights my fuse. "You don't think it's my business that my loser brother, who has contributed nothing to this world other than carbon dioxide, gets his trust fund at twenty-five and I have to wait until thirty? Me. The responsible one. The one who finished law school. Early. The one who works for TwinCities Trendsetters as their Legal Director. As opposed to your son, the one who only leaves his room for dinner someone else cooked and complains it's interrupting his video games."

My face flames despite my best efforts to keep calm, but it's the internal tirade that burns hotter. So, because I'm a woman, I have to keep proving myself? While Montgomery sails through life grabbing all the perks just because he's male. This isn't just about the money. It's about respect, about recognizing that I'm not just some runner-up in the family success story. I've shattered every glass ceiling, crushed every barrier he's placed before me, yet here I am, still waiting in line. It's not merely unfair—it's a stark display of how differently he values his son just because he was born with a dick and his last name. And frankly, it reeks of an outdated sexism I hoped we were both past.

Dad seems unperturbed, even though my voice has risen well above a socially acceptable volume. "This is the way the funds were set up."

"By you." I jab a finger at his chest. "You left that part out. You set up the funds."

"This is the way it has always been done in the family," he says. "Why would we change it now?"

"What? That the boys get access earlier? That the girls have to exercise more patience?"

"Not necessarily." Dad's lips turn up at the corner as if I'm a little kid throwing a tantrum over something amusing. "There's a clause in the paperwork that says you would have been granted access to your fund at age twenty-five… if you were married. But since you aren't…"

I stare at him, opening and closing my mouth, but unable to force any words out. This is so unfair, I can hardly stand it. I work hard. If I wanted to get married, I'd be married, but putting in a clause that rewards me for finding a partner is way out of line. Even worse, this rule only applies to me because of my gender. Montgomery isn't married. So, what the hell?

"Are you telling me that I'm the first woman in the family to complain?" My voice cracks. I probably sound like I'm on the verge of tears, but it's anger, not sadness, that's fueling me right now.

Dad shakes his head. "No, you're just the first woman in the family not married by twenty-five. I guess congratulations are in order for being the pickiest Jensen in history."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. This conversation is making me view my parents' relationship in a whole new light. Was Mom really okay with this plan? She didn't fight for me? Did she, too, look at her baby girl and decide that marriage should be my ultimate goal? Gag me. "Did you just call me an old maid at twenty-seven?"

"I'm simply stating the facts. If you want to claim your trust fund, get married. Otherwise, it's only a few more years. Besides, you're smart and successful, it's not like you need the money. Be grateful I put in this stopgap so you didn't piss it away."

"Like it's that simple, Dad. It's the point that counts in this discussion. We're talking about marriage, and you make it sound like I'm checking out a library book."

His superior gaze scans me. "I'd have thought you'd have gone with a shopping allusion, but sure…"

I open one eye. "Please. Have you seen me shop? Shopping is easy. If finding a guy I liked was as easy as finding a flattering little black dress, I'd be wearing a ring as we speak. I need to find someone I want to spend a lot of time with, there's this whole fit issue. No wonder Cinderella had this whole shoe motif in there. It's like that. I don't just put any shoe on my foot. And I'm not just marrying any man."

He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. "Well, if you change your mind, I ran into Fitzgerald the other day. You know, I had always hoped…"

I shudder. "Fitz? I knew you were going to bring him up. Never mention that name again." I wave the mention of Fitz away like I'm brushing off a fly. A horsefly. The kind that bites.

"He's a fine young man," Dad insists. He's probably said the same thing about Montgomery. I agree, Fitz is fine… as in, passable. Mediocre. Okay. He's nothing to write home about, and he's certainly not the type you marry unless you want to end up spending your entire day in the kitchen basting pot roast in a gingham apron.

"He's an idiot. He's a bumbling, blathering idiot. And the idea of sharing a meal with him turns my stomach, forget about my body or the same bed. Ew." I shudder for dramatic effect. "So, let's renegotiate the terms of my trust fund. There has to be—"

For the first time, Dad's expression hardens. "No negotiation. The terms are set. And this discussion is over. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to the party."

I watch him leave. No doubt he'll make his way back inside to talk about investments and capital with the good old boys' club. I should probably go, too. Pretend none of this happened. Be the dutiful daughter.

But I'm frustrated. My parents have always acted like achieving things came as easily to me as video games do to Montie, but that's not true at all. I've worked hard, partly because I want to live up to my dad's expectations, and partly because of my own work ethic.

Now I'm realizing that no matter what I do, it will never be enough. I can work hard, get the best grades, take on the most responsibility, and I'm always going to end up playing second fiddle to my brother just because he was born a male capable of carrying on the family legacy. I don't want to go back to the party. I don't want to be here at all. I need to get away.

I need to talk to my best friend.

Tierney is the best. Plus, she has experience with family difficulties. Sure, she lives almost four hours away, but getting away for a few days will be good for me.

I should probably call her before I leave. Otherwise, I'll end up in that godawful motel I wouldn't check a bedbug into.

I'd rather deal with bedbugs than my brother, though, so I grab my coat, fish the keys out of my pocket, and get the hell out of dodge before I do or say something I can't take back.