Oh, my God. I was scrolling through transactions with my eyes wide open like a cartoon character. Spa gift baskets the size of small children. Designer shoes she absolutely could not walk in. A $480 “facelift wand.” A banana-slicer shaped like a dolphin?? A RAINBOW BIDET ATTACHMENT??
All charged to my name.
When I went to my husband and told him what his mother had done, his reaction hit me like a bucket of ice water.
“Sit down,” he said sharply. “I HAVE AN IDEA.”
So, how did we get here?
“This must be someone else’s account.”
Two years ago, my credit score suddenly nosedived.
I was in bed with my phone, checking it like I always did at the end of the month, and the number was just… wrong.
I remember thinking, “This must be someone else’s account.”
I refreshed the app.
Same number.
“Okay, what did I mess up?” I whispered to myself.
I got up, sat at the kitchen table, and opened my laptop.
Still, my score had tanked.
I went through every bill. Every auto-payment. Every statement.
Nothing was late. Nothing was missed.
Still, my score had tanked.
So, of course, I decided the only explanation was that I sucked at money.
I started keeping a notebook.
Every time I spent anything, I wrote it down.
Gas: 32.41.Groceries: 87.13.Coffee with coworker: 4.89.
“It’s probably just an algorithm error or something.”
If I forgot to log something, I started feeling nauseating anxiety.
Meanwhile, my husband would come home from work, kiss my cheek, and say, “Look at you, finance queen,” like this was just a cute new hobby, not me trying not to drown.
When I told him my score had dropped, I downplayed it.
“It’s probably just an algorithm error or something,” I said. “I’ll fix it.”
He believed me. I didn’t believe myself.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago.
The next day, my phone rang with an unknown number.
I applied for a rewards credit card because we wanted to book a trip next year, and I figured, points.
Instead of approval, the website stalled and gave me a “we’ll let you know” message.
The next day, my phone rang with an unknown number.
“Hi, this is Danielle from the fraud department at your local bank,” a calm woman said. “Is this Lisa?”
“Yes,” I said, already sweating.
“We flagged some accounts connected to your Social Security number,” she said. “I just need to confirm a few details.”
She read off the name on a department store card.
“I never opened anything with them.”
“No,” I said. “I never opened anything with them.”
Then, there was a wellness gadget company. A buy-now-pay-later account. Another store card.
With each name, my chest got tighter.
“I didn’t open any of that,” I said. “I have one card and student loans. That’s it.”
Her tone shifted.
“Okay,” she said. “In that case, these may be fraudulent. I’m going to email you statements and associated addresses. Please review them and call us back.”
Pages of purchases. Hundreds and thousands of dollars.
I hung up and waited for the email like it was a test result.
When it came through, I clicked the first PDF.
Pages of purchases. Hundreds and thousands of dollars.
My name at the top.
My stomach dropped further with each page.
Then, I opened the file with shipping addresses.
The first one was our apartment.
Ethan’s old address.
The second one made my blood run cold.
I recognized the street and the zip code before my brain even grabbed the whole line.
Ethan’s old address.
His parents’ house.
I whispered it out loud.
Then I opened one of the email receipts.
Name: Margaret L.
My brain refused to accept it.
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