In the 1970s, as a kid with dreams bigger than my $3-a-week allowance, I learned hard lessons about trust from my father, Alex Ligas. Every week for 31 weeks, I’d ask for my allowance, and he’d promise to “hold it” for me, swearing he’d pay me in full when I needed it. I pictured a stash piling up for something special—a new bike, maybe, or a stack of comic books. But when the time came, he handed me just $20, a fraction of the $93 I was owed. I overheard him tell my aunt he’d only ever planned to give me $20. The lie cut deeper than the missing money. He’d ask me to hand over what little I had, saying he’d “keep it safe,” then wonder why I didn’t trust him. To a kid, that betrayal felt like a theft of hope.
The pattern didn’t stop there. A few years later, he’d dangle rewards like bait: “Do this, and I’ll give you that.” I’d deliver, only to hear why I didn’t deserve it. Once, after I held up my end, he waited six months before brushing it off, leaving me feeling foolish for believing him. By the time I was older, I was skeptical but still hopeful. He tried again, promising I could use one of his cars if I sold my windsurfer, a passion I’d poured my heart into. I didn’t budge this time, wise to his game. In the end, I got a car—his worst one, a clunky Pontiac that rattled more than it rolled. Another promise broken, another lesson learned.
Each betrayal taught me something my father never could: the value of integrity. He’d ask why I didn’t trust him, but the answer was in his actions. Those moments shaped me, pushing me to live differently. I go out of my way to be ethical, to keep my word, to be someone others can rely on. Healing from those broken promises means building a life where my actions speak louder than his lies ever did. I’m not Alex Ligas—I’m me, and I’m creating a legacy of honesty.
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