“Sarah, they don’t have the money to pay it back. They can barely cover their mortgage now that I’m not funding it. This is a stalling tactic.”
“What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them they have 72 hours to contact all credit bureaus, all lenders, and all collection agencies with a full confession of fraud. Tell them they have 72 hours to sign affidavits releasing me from any financial liability for accounts I didn’t open. Tell them 72 hours, or I file criminal charges with federal prosecutors.”
Sarah paused. “You’re certain about this?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
Sixty-eight hours later, I received a package via courier.
Inside were signed affidavits from both parents confessing to identity theft, fraudulent credit applications, and loan fraud. Attached were letters to all three credit bureaus releasing me from liability.
Also in the package was a handwritten note from Mom.
“Rebecca, we’re doing what you asked. We’re taking responsibility. I hope someday you can forgive us. We never meant to hurt you. We just… we got in over our heads and made terrible choices. I’m so sorry.”
I read the note three times. Then I filed it with Sarah’s office for the legal record.
I didn’t respond.
Over the next two months, the consequences played out like falling dominoes.
Dad’s construction business declared bankruptcy in May. He had to liquidate equipment and close the company he’d owned for 23 years. He took a job as a project manager at another firm, making $68,000 a year, a third of what he’d made as an owner.
Mom downsized her showroom, moving to a smaller space with a lease she could afford. She let go of her assistant and went back to being a one-woman operation. Her income dropped from $140,000 a year to about $60,000.
They had to refinance their house, taking a higher interest rate due to their damaged credit. Their monthly payment went from $3,200 to $4,100.
They were struggling.
Marcus called me in June.
“Rebecca, I know you’re mad at Mom and Dad, but this is getting out of hand. They’re really suffering.”
“They committed crimes, Marcus. And you took out a $142,000 loan in my name. You’re hardly innocent here.”
“I thought you’d agreed to co-sign.”
“You forged my signature. I have the documents. Should I send them to you?”
He went quiet.
“Marcus, you made $2.3 million when your startup went public. You drive a Porsche. You live in Georgetown. Why aren’t you helping them?”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not. You have money. They need money. You’re family. Help them.”
“But I have my own expenses.”
“Exactly. So did I. But I helped anyway for eight years while you all judged me. Now it’s your turn.”
I hung up.
In July, Jennifer’s marriage hit the rocks. Apparently, the financial stress of their lifestyle, the mortgage I was no longer secretly helping with, and the credit card debt they’d accumulated had created friction.
They separated. By August, she’d filed for divorce.
She left me a voicemail.