My Parents Tricked Me Into Thinking They Cared, So I Tricked Them Into Regretting It.
Sabotage at the Workplace
The next morning, I took the recording to the police station and filed a report for attempted identity theft and harassment. The officer who took my report was sympathetic but not particularly hopeful.
“Family disputes are complicated,”
he said.
“Without concrete proof they were the ones who attempted to access your account, there’s not much we can do besides take the report.”
I left feeling frustrated, but at least I had documentation started. When I got home and checked the mail, I found several credit card applications I hadn’t requested.
This confirmed my suspicions. My parents had stolen mail or personal documents during their brief visit to our apartment, but I couldn’t figure out how they’d managed it with our new locks and security camera.
Later, I discovered they had befriended our building’s maintenance supervisor, who had let them in when we weren’t home. I added this to my growing file of evidence.
The next day at work, I spoke with building security, warning them about potential troublemakers who might claim to be my parents. I showed them photos and asked to be notified if these people appeared.
The security guard seemed to take it seriously, making notes in their system. Despite my precautions, my mother managed to show up at my workplace the very next afternoon.
The receptionist called, saying my mother was in the lobby with important family documents that I needed to sign. I asked the receptionist to tell her I wasn’t available.
10 minutes later, my supervisor came to my desk.
“Everything okay with your family?”
she asked.
“Your mother seems pretty insistent about seeing you.”
I had to give my supervisor a quick, sanitized version of the situation. She seemed understanding at first, but I could tell she was concerned about personal drama affecting the workplace.
My concern proved valid when the following day, anonymous emails arrived in the company’s general inbox with embarrassing photos of me from high school, including one where I was clearly drunk at a party. The subject line read, “Your employee’s character.”
I was called into an uncomfortable meeting with HR where I had to explain I was being harassed by my estranged parents.
“We understand personal difficulties,”
the HR representative said carefully.
“But we need to maintain professional boundaries. Perhaps you should resolve these family issues outside of work hours.”
I left the meeting feeling humiliated and angry. My parents were systematically trying to destroy the life I’d built.
When I told Tyler about the workplace incident, he immediately suggested we install more security cameras around our apartment.
“We need to have evidence if they try anything else,”
he said. We made plans to buy the equipment that weekend, but before we could, we returned home from work to find something unsettling.
Nothing was missing, but things weren’t quite right. My laptop had been moved slightly.
A drawer in the kitchen wasn’t fully closed. The bathroom towels were folded differently.
“Someone’s been in here,”
Tyler said, voicing what we both were thinking. We called the police again.
The responding officers took the report but said there was no sign of forced entry and nothing was stolen, so there wasn’t much they could do. They suggested we check with building management about who might have access to our apartment.
That night, neither of us felt safe staying there, so we crashed at our friend Alex’s place. The next morning, I received a certified letter from an attorney claiming my parents had financially supported my education and were demanding repayment of $150,000.
The letter listed alleged expenses, including tuition, housing, food, and even emotional support that apparently had a dollar value attached. I laughed bitterly as I showed the letter to Tyler.
“I paid for college with scholarships and loans. They didn’t give me a dime.”
“Do you have proof of that?”
Tyler asked. Fortunately, I did.
I’d kept detailed records of all my scholarships and student loans specifically because I’d been afraid my parents might try to take credit for my education someday. I spent the evening organizing all my financial documentation, ready to disprove their claims.
My therapist suggested I have my own attorney send a formal cease and desist letter. I used most of my next paycheck to hire a lawyer who specialized in harassment cases.
She drafted a strongly worded letter demanding my parents stop all contact and threatened legal consequences if they continued. I thought the attorney’s letter might finally get through to them.
Instead, it escalated things further. My parents began contacting my friends and even former classmates from college.
They painted themselves as concerned parents trying to help their mentally unstable son who was pushing away his loving family. Several of my less close friends started reaching out, asking if I was okay and suggesting I should reconcile with my parents.
“They seem to really care about you,”
one said.
“Everyone has family issues sometimes.”
I was losing the narrative. People who didn’t know the full story were starting to see me as the villain.
A group of these friends even organized what they called a mediation dinner, which was really just an intervention where they tried to convince me to reconnect with my loving parents.
“You don’t understand,”
I tried explaining.
“They’re not who they pretend to be in public.”
“They raised you,”
someone argued.
“They put a roof over your head. You owe them some respect.”
I was about to give up when Tyler stood and addressed the group.
“None of you lived in that house growing up. None of you know what he went through, and none of you were there when his parents broke into our apartment last week.”
The room fell silent. Tyler pulled out his phone and showed them the security camera footage we’d retrieved from building management.
It clearly showed my parents speaking with the maintenance supervisor, who then let them into our apartment. My mother was smiling and chatting while my father looked impatient to get inside.
Seeing the actual evidence, most of my friends realized they’d been manipulated. They apologized for the intervention and promised to block my parents if they reached out again.
The friend who had organized it looked especially ashamed.
“I’m sorry,”
he said.
“My parents are great, so I just assumed. I should have trusted you.”
With my immediate social circle back on my side, I felt stronger. I focused on documenting every single contact attempt and strange occurrence.
My parents switched tactics again, now spreading rumors in my hometown that I was mentally unstable. Distant relatives and family friends started calling to check if I was getting help and taking my medication—medication I had never been prescribed.
The constant stress was wearing me down. After discussing it with Tyler and my therapist, I decided to temporarily deactivate all my social media accounts.
This would cut off one way my parents gathered information about me, but it also isolated me from my support network. Tyler suggested a solution.
He created dummy accounts to monitor what my parents were posting without them knowing we could see it. This turned out to be crucial.
Through one of these monitoring accounts, we discovered my parents were planning a surprise visit with several extended family members to help me. They had posted about intervention strategies and shared my address with relatives I barely knew.
“They’re planning to ambush you with the whole family,”
Tyler warned, showing me the posts.
“This Saturday.”
Thankfully, our apartment building required visitor approval. I immediately contacted building management, explaining the situation and providing the restraining order documentation.
They assured me that no one would be allowed up without my explicit approval. When Saturday came, I was a nervous wreck.
Around noon, I received a call from the front desk.
“Sir, there are five people here claiming to be your family. They’re saying it’s an emergency.”
“It’s not an emergency,”
I replied.
“Please don’t let them up. They’re violating a restraining order by being there.”
The security guard handled it professionally, refusing to let them up without my approval. According to the follow-up call I received, my parents and three other relatives had created quite a scene in the lobby, yelling about family rights and threatening to call the police themselves.
Security had recorded the entire incident on their cameras, giving me more evidence of harassment. Later that evening, my uncle Thomas called.
He had been part of the group earlier but seemed more reasonable than the others.
“Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on between you and your parents,”
he said.
“But I care about you, kid. Can we meet somewhere private to talk, just you and me?”
I was wary but also curious. Thomas had always been the most normal of my relatives.
He’d occasionally slipped me $20 at family gatherings when I was a kid, telling me to buy something fun. I cautiously agreed to meet him at a cafe near my workplace the following afternoon.
“Just you,”
I emphasized.
“If anyone else shows up, I’m leaving immediately.”
“I understand,”
he said.
“Just us.”
I arrived at the cafe early and chose a table with a clear view of the entrance and exit. I ordered a coffee and waited nervously, checking my phone every few minutes.
Thomas arrived right on time, alone as promised. He ordered a coffee and sat across from me, looking uncomfortable.
“So,”
he started.
“Your parents are telling everyone you’ve had some kind of breakdown.”
“And you believed them?”
I asked. He shrugged.
“I figured there were two sides to the story. That’s why I’m here.”
As Thomas talked, I happened to glance out the window. Parked across the street was a familiar car—my parents’ rental.
I could see both of them sitting inside, watching the cafe. My heart started racing.
“They’re outside,”
I said, cutting Thomas off mid-sentence.
“In the car across the street.”
Thomas looked genuinely surprised and turned to look.
“I swear I didn’t know they would follow me. I told them I was running errands.”
Whether he was telling the truth or not didn’t matter. I couldn’t trust anyone in my family anymore.
I stood up, threw some cash on the table for the coffees, and headed for the back exit.
“I’m sorry!”
I heard Thomas call after me, but I didn’t look back. I texted Tyler immediately, asking him to meet me at home, as I took a circuitous route back to our apartment, checking frequently to make sure I wasn’t being followed.
I felt a crushing realization: I couldn’t trust anyone in my family, not even the ones who seemed reasonable. They were all potential tools for my parents to get to me.
When I got home, Tyler was already there. I told him about what happened with Thomas and seeing my parents waiting outside.
“This is getting seriously creepy,”
Tyler said.
“They’re basically stalking you at this point.”
“I know,”
I replied, pacing our living room.
“And I don’t know how to make it stop. The restraining order isn’t doing anything. The police reports aren’t doing anything. Nothing is working.”
Tyler thought for a moment.
“What about your grandmother? Have you talked to her about any of this?”
My grandmother. I hadn’t even considered reaching out to her.
She lived in another state and had always been somewhat distant from the family drama. My mom always claimed she was difficult, which was odd considering how warm and understanding she’d always been with me during our limited interactions.
But there was some tension between them. They rarely spoke and my mother would roll her eyes whenever Grandmother was mentioned.
I later learned this was because my grandmother saw through my mother’s manipulations and called her out on them.
“That’s actually not a bad idea,”
I said slowly.
“She’s always been pretty straight-shooting.”
