My Parents Tricked Me Into Thinking They Cared, So I Tricked Them Into Regretting It.

False Allegations and Identity Theft

That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t about the graduation bill at all; this was about the lie I’d told about being wealthy. They actually believed it.

“I’m not a millionaire,”

I said flatly.

“I made that up because I was hurt by the bill you sent me.”

My dad snorted.

“Right. We’ve seen your social media—the restaurants, the weekend trips. You’re doing very well for yourself and not sharing with family.”

They’d been monitoring my social media all this time. Those posts were mostly from events paid for by my friends or cheap day trips where we split gas money.

But from the outside, I guess it could look like a more lavish lifestyle.

“Look,”

my dad said, his voice softening into what I recognized as his manipulation tone.

“Let’s start fresh. We’re thinking a small loan of $50,000 for our retirement fund. That’s nothing for someone in your position.”

I just stared at them.

“I’m not giving you money. I don’t have money to give, and even if I did, the answer would still be no.”

My mom’s face changed instantly. The fake smile disappeared, replaced by the cold look I knew all too well from childhood.

“We can make things very difficult for you,”

she said.

“Your employer might be interested to hear about your trouble with the law as a teenager.”

“I never had trouble with the law,”

I said, confused.

“They don’t know that,”

my dad replied with a smirk. I remembered what my therapist had told me about documenting interactions with them.

I touched the button on my smartwatch to start recording.

“I’m recording this conversation,”

I said calmly.

“If you’re threatening to lie to my employer, I’d like to have that on record.”

Their expressions changed faster than flipping a switch. Suddenly, they were concerned parents again, just trying to reconnect with their son.

My dad stood up, making excuses about needing to get back to their hotel. As they headed toward the door, I noticed my dad casually pick up my spare house key from the entry table.

“Put that back,”

I said firmly. He acted surprised, as if he picked it up by accident, and returned the key.

They were almost out the door when my mom suddenly clutched at her chest and collapsed against the wall.

“My heart,”

she gasped.

“I think I’m having a heart attack.”

I panicked and called 911 immediately. The operator asked me questions about my mom’s condition while I watched her writhing on the floor.

My dad knelt beside her, looking genuinely worried, which made me second-guess myself. What if she was actually having a heart attack?

What if my suspicion and coldness toward them had caused this? The guilt hit me hard, even as I tried to stay logical.

The paramedics arrived within minutes. Two EMTs rushed in with their equipment while I stood back, heart racing.

They checked her vitals, asked her questions, and did a quick examination. One of them pulled me aside while the other continued checking my mom.

“Has she had heart problems before?”

he asked.

“I don’t know,”

I admitted.

“We’re not close.”

The paramedic nodded without judgment and returned to my mom. After a few more minutes of examination, they helped her sit up.

The female EMT explained that my mom’s vitals were normal and that this appeared to be an anxiety attack, not a heart issue. She suggested my mom follow up with her doctor but didn’t think emergency care was necessary.

Like magic, my mom’s condition improved dramatically once she realized her performance wasn’t working. She refused to go to the hospital, saying she felt better already.

The paramedics left after having her sign a form, and I was once again alone with my parents.

“You need to leave,”

I said firmly, standing by the door.

“Now.”

My dad helped my mom up, giving me a look that chilled me to the bone.

“This isn’t over,”

he said quietly.

“Family takes care of family. Remember that?”

I didn’t respond; just held the door open until they walked through it. Then I shut it, locked it, and slid down to the floor with my back against it.

I was shaking. I called Tyler and gave him a quick update, telling him it was safe to come home.

While I waited for him, I ordered new locks online for same-day installation. When Tyler got back, he helped me install the new locks and even bought a basic security camera for our front door.

We set it up together, both of us jumpy at every noise from the hallway.

“Dude, your parents are something else,”

Tyler said, as we tested the camera’s motion alerts on our phones.

“Your mom had me convinced I was gay and trying to corrupt you or something. They kept asking weird questions about our relationship.”

I groaned.

“Yeah, that sounds like them. Thanks for dealing with them until I got here.”

“No problem. But seriously, are you okay? This is messed up.”

Before I could answer, my phone pinged with a notification from my bank about unusual activity. My heart sank as I quickly logged into my account.

Someone had attempted to access it using my personal information. The attempt had been flagged because it came from a different state—my parents’ home state.

“They’re trying to get into my bank account,”

I said, showing Tyler my phone. Tyler looked horrified.

“Can they do that?”

“They know my social security number, my birthday, probably my first pet’s name, and all the other security questions,”

I said, feeling sick.

“They’re my parents.”

I spent the next hour on the phone with my bank, freezing all my accounts and setting up additional security measures. I also froze my credit with all three major bureaus just to be safe.

While I was doing this, my phone rang with a blocked number. Against my better judgment, I answered and put it on speaker so Tyler could hear.

It was my dad.

“We know people who can make problems for you,”

he said without preamble.

“Computer people. People who can access things. You should think about that before you keep refusing to help your family.”

I hung up without responding but saved the voicemail.