Unfiltered Story #215195

, , | Unfiltered | November 15, 2020

When I’m close to 18, around 01′, my parents apparently decide that I must have my own bank account, since in a few months I will be going off to college on my own. I only learn about this after I get in the car with my dad; beforehand he’d just ordered me in and said he needed me along to run some errands. Note: at this point I know nothing whatsoever about opening or using any kind of financial accounts.

We get to the bank branch, and after we stand in line, the clerk informs dad that he’s brought insufficient identification paperwork for me. They have – openly available – a very clear list of what minimum paperwork is required to open an account.

I don’t remember exactly, but he had brought either my license or my passport (which was non-US issued), and I think they required the SSN card as well or something similar.

This means we must drive all the way home, get the paperwork, drive all the way back, and stand in line again.

My father seems very upset at the waste of time, as well as the fact that – since he’d opened his own bank accounts in this same branch only a few years ago – he obviously comes off as a bit of an idiot. He clearly dislikes this greatly, so he turns to me with a thunderous face right there in front of the clerk.

Dad: *angrily, as if he genuinely believes I’ve deliberately sabotaged him* “Why the hell didn’t you tell me to bring along (paperwork)? Why didn’t you check that I had everything we needed?? Didn’t you know exactly what papers we’d need?!?!?!?! You should have known!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Me: *Utterly speechless.*

(However, I immediately gave him such a taken-aback and appalled look in front of the clerk and everyone else that he seemed to judge it best to quickly lay off me and shut up.

He remained absolutely stone silent the entire time we drove home, got the paperwork, drove back, and stood in line again (which all wasted close to another hour). He wouldn’t even look at me.
I was mostly thankful, and also kept marveling at the fact that this was a 45-year-old man who’d – somehow – successfully arranged our family’s moves through 3 different countries and half a dozen different cities; as well as the rental, purchase, and sale of several apartments on the way. This same man who now was choosing to publicly blame his completely bewildered minor child over his own stupid mistake, and then sulking like a child himself over not getting away with it.)

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