I archived every message where my mother pleaded, where my father promised, where Shell thanked me in emojis. I saved screenshots of social posts—time stamps, locations, comments from their friends about “your new place is gorgeous!” I pulled public records on the house. The mortgage timing lined up with my largest “emergency treatments.” The down payment was paid the same month I’d emptied our savings.
Then I started making calls. I called the bank fraud department. I called a lawyer.
I called the IRS tip line because people who treat family like prey usually treat taxes like suggestions. I filed a civil complaint with the exact number, not rounded, not softened. I attached evidence like a forensic puzzle: money in, lies out, luxury purchases in between.
And because my father loved to feel important, he’d bragged in the wrong places online. He’d posted a photo with his new car and tagged his employer. He’d “liked” Shell’s posts about vacations in the same months he’d sent me texts about “another hospital transfer.” I sent those screenshots to his HR department with a single sentence: I believe an employee of yours has committed long-term financial fraud and may be using company resources for it.
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