For most people, parents are supposed to protect you from the world. Mine used me as a financial shield. I thought the worst they could do was blow rent money on designer purses while the lights got cut off.
I was wrong.
Turns out, they stole something much bigger from me.
I never thought I’d say this, but my parents turned me into their personal ATM — and then had the audacity to expect a thank you. I’m a 29-year-old woman, and honestly, my parents could teach a masterclass in turning money into disaster.”
Evictions?
Check.
Power shut-offs? Too many to count.
My mom strutted around with designer purses while collection notices piled up on the counter like confetti after a parade.
Still, I thought I’d built some distance. I worked so hard after an unexpected surgery left me with medical debt. I did overtime shifts, and said no to vacations.
With time, slowly, painfully, I was clawing my way back.
My tax refund this year was supposed to be my golden ticket: the final payment to freedom.
Then the letter came.
It was from the courthouse, thick, official, and terrifying.
I tore it open at my kitchen table.
“Funds seized to settle outstanding debts under your name.” Those were the first words I read.
My heart dropped. “What debts?” I whispered to no one.
I don’t even remember hitting “call” on my phone.
Me: “Why is there a court order saying I owe thousands on a bill I never opened?!”
Mom (flatly, like she was reading off a grocery list): “God, you’re so dramatic.
Yes, we used your name for one bill.
You’re my daughter, it’s your job to help this family.”
For a second, I thought I misheard her. My grip tightened on the phone until my knuckles went white.
Me: “You STOLE my identity?!
I’ve been paying off my OWN medical debt while you—”
Dad (yelling in the background): “Oh, please.
We kept a roof over your head for years.
Covering a few bills is the least you can do.
You act like you’re some saint.”
My stomach dropped. A roof? Evictions and power cutouts.
Them fighting over money while I did homework in the dark.
That was their idea of a roof.
I hung up before I said something that would make me regret ever calling. Instead, I pulled up court records.
My hands shook so hard on the keyboard that I could barely type.
There it was, staring back at me: a lawsuit in my name, filed a year ago. Every notice had been mailed to my parents’ address.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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