Hi, I’m Sarah. Today I’m going to read you the story of Emily, which is titled like this. On my birthday, my rich grandpa smiled. How do you spend your $3,400,000 trust fund? I shockingly blinked. What trust fund? My parents looked like they might throw up. He turned to them and asked, “Where did the money go?” “Well, let’s go.

” My name is Emily and I just turned 27 that day when my whole world flipped upside down. Let me back up a bit. I’d been working as a graphic designer at this small agency in San Francisco for about 3 years. Nothing fancy, but I was proud of it. I shared a modest apartment with my roommate Madison in the Mission District.

The place wasn’t much peeling paint, weird smell in the hallway, occasional cockroach, but it was home. Here’s the thing about my family that you need to know. My grandfather, Robert, was loaded. The man had made his fortune investing early in computer companies back in the day. We’re talking millions and millions. He lived in another state, and I only saw him a few times a year, but we kept in touch through texts and occasional calls.

My parents, James and Victoria, lived in this huge four-bedroom house in Marane County. pool, threecar garage, the whole deal. They went on vacations to Europe twice a year, drove fancy cars, and my mom had more designer bags than a department store. But me, I was paying off $70,000 in student loans from art school. Yeah, you read that right.

$70,000. When I graduated 5 years ago, my parents showed up to my graduation, gave me a hug, and handed me a wrapped present. I was so excited, thinking maybe they’d help with my loans or something. Nope. It was a book about financial literacy. My dad clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Time to make your own way in life, kiddo.” That was it.

I never asked Grandpa Robert for money. I was too proud, I guess. I wanted to prove I could make it on my own, even if it meant eating ramen five nights a week and shopping at thrift stores. Then a week before my birthday, everything went to hell. My boss called me into his office on a Tuesday afternoon. Emily, I’m really sorry, but we have to let you go. Company’s downsizing.

Just like that. 5 minutes and I was packing my desk into a cardboard box. I had maybe two months of savings. That’s it. Rent was due, student loan payment was coming up, and I had no job. I called my parents that night trying not to cry. “Mom, I lost my job,” I said. “Oh, that’s too bad, honey.” She said, and I could hear her typing on her laptop in the background.

But you’ll figure it out. You always do. Mom, I’m really struggling here. I don’t know how I’m going to pay rent next month. Well, maybe you should have saved more, she said. By the way, we need to celebrate your birthday properly. I made reservations at Attelier Krenn for Saturday night. Mom, that place is like $300 per person. I can’t afford that.

Can we just do something at home? Nonsense. You can’t skimp on celebrations. It’s your birthday. And don’t you dare bother your grandfather with your problems. He hasn’t been feeling well lately. I wanted to scream, but I just said okay. And hung up. That night, I sat on our ratty couch with Madison. She was the best roommate anyone could ask for.

We’d been living together for 2 years, and she’d become my closest friend. “M, you look like crap,” she said, handing me a beer. I told her everything about the job, the savings, my parents’ reaction. Madison shook her head. “Your parents are something else. Look, don’t worry about rent for now. I can cover the full amount until you get back on your feet.

I hugged her so tight I thought I might break her ribs. The day of my birthday came too fast. I put on my only nice dress, a black thing I’d bought at Nordstrom Rack 3 years ago, and took the bus to the restaurant. My parents were already there when I arrived, sitting at a corner table.

Mom wore this massive diamond necklace that probably cost more than my annual salary. Dad had on his Rolex. Happy birthday, sweetheart. Mom air kissed my cheeks. You look tired. Thanks, Mom. We ordered drinks and the conversation was painful. They talked about their upcoming trip to the Amalfi Coast, the new Tesla Model S.

Dad had just bought mom’s tennis lessons at the country club. Not one word about my job situation. Then the restaurant door opened and in walked Grandpa Robert with his assistant Michelle. Even at 80, the man had presents. Tall, silver-haired, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. The whole restaurant seemed to notice him.

My parents went rigid. Mom’s hand flew to her necklace. There’s my favorite granddaughter, Robert Boomed, coming over to give me a real hug, not the airiss nonsense. Grandpa, I didn’t know you were coming. wouldn’t miss it for the world. Michelle helped me fly in this morning. He sat down and fixed his sharp blue eyes on me.

So, Emily, how are things? I glanced at mom who was giving me a death stare. Oh, you know, fine. Just working hard. Good. Good. And you’re reviewing those quarterly reports on your investment portfolio? Market’s been treating that trust fund well, I hope. I blinked. What trust fund? The table went silent. You could have heard a pin drop.

Grandpa’s expression changed. The trust fund I set up when you were born. $1 million to be transferred to your control when you turned 25. My mouth opened, but no words came out. James Victoria Robert’s voice was deadly calm. Care to explain why my granddaughter doesn’t know about her trust fund? Dad cleared his throat.

There must be some misunderstanding. And while we’re at it, Robert continued, his voice getting quieter, which was somehow scarier. What about the apartment in Pacific Heights? The one I bought for Emily’s 25th birthday? The one I gave you the keys to deliver to her? Apartment? I whispered. Mom’s face had gone white.

Dad looked like he might throw up. Robert pulled out his phone. Michelle, get me Michael Anderson now. He looked at the restaurant manager. Well meet a private room. The manager practically ran to accommodate us. We were ushered into a private dining room and 20 minutes later, a man in an expensive suit walked in carrying a briefcase.

“Michael Anderson,” he said, shaking my hand. “Your grandfather’s attorney.” Michael Anderson opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of documents. My parents sat there like statues, and mom kept twisting her diamond necklace around her finger. Miss Emily, the lawyer began, “Your trust fund was established with an initial capital of $1 million when you were born.

With investment growth over 27 years, it should now be worth approximately $3.4 million. Your parents were designated as trustees until you turned 18, at which point they were supposed to inform you of its existence. At 25, full control should have transferred to you. Mr. Anderson, Robert said, “Can you pull up the current balance?” The lawyer typed on his tablet for a moment. His face went grim.

The current balance is approximately $200,000. The room exploded. “What?” I stood up so fast my chair fell over. “Where’s the rest of it?” Michael pulled out more papers. “I have the transaction history here. Let me see. There are systematic withdrawals over the past 7 years. Large transfers, mortgage payoff of $450,000, vehicle purchases totaling $280,000.

Two Tesla Model S cars specifically, home renovation for $320,000. Investment in Victoria Thompson’s real estate venture, $500,000, marked as total loss. Each item he read was another knife in my back. The lawyer continued in his monotone voice. Multiple vacation expenses, European trips, Caribbean cruises, first class flights, and here purchase of a property in Malibu for $1.8 million.

Mom started crying. Not sad crying, the fake kind she did when she wanted something. Dad, please. Dad finally spoke. We can explain. We were just trying to trying to what? Robert’s voice was ice. Steal from your own daughter. While she was eating cheap noodles and killing herself with work. It wasn’t stealing. Mom wailed.

We were managing it. We’re her parents. I found my voice. You gave me a book on financial literacy for graduation. While you were spending my millions, I’ve been paying off 70,000 in student loans. Do you know how many nights I didn’t eat dinner because I had to choose between food and loan payments? You needed to learn responsibility? Dad mumbled, not meeting my eyes.

Responsibility? Are you kidding me? Robert raised his hand and everyone went quiet. Now, about the apartment. The Pacific Heights property I purchased for Emily’s 25th birthday. I gave you both the keys two years ago to give to her. Where is that apartment? The silence stretched out. Mom clutched her purse tighter.

Dad stared at his hands. “We’ve been renting it out,” Dad finally whispered. “Excuse me,” Grandpa’s voice was dangerously quiet. “The rental income we needed. It was just sitting empty.” “Mom stammered.” Michael typed quickly. “I show the property deed here. Two-bedroom, purchased 2 years ago for 1.2 million, fully paid.

Current market rental rate for that unit would be approximately $4,500 per month. So, you’ve collected over $100,000 in rent from my apartment? My voice was shaking. Well, I lived with roommates and cockroaches. Robert stood up slowly when he spoke. His voice was calm but absolutely terrifying. Give me the keys. Mom’s hands were shaking as she opened her purse.

She pulled out a small key ring with two keys and a fob. She held them for a moment like she was considering refusing, then looked at Robert’s face and thought better of it. She reached across the table and placed them in front of him. “These are your daughter’s keys,” Robert said, sliding them across to me. “Two years late.

I picked them up. They were still warm from being in mom’s purse. My apartment keys, mine.” Robert turned to his assistant. Michelle, I want you to conduct a complete forensic audit of every account, every transaction, every asset James and Victoria have touched in the last 7 years. Everything. Yes, Mr.

Thompson, Michelle said, already typing on her phone. You can’t do this to us, Mom shrieked. We’re family. Family doesn’t steal from family, Robert replied. Get out, both of you. My lawyers will be in touch. My parents stood up. Dad looked like he’d aged 10 years in 10 minutes. Mom was still trying to cry, but even she seemed to realize it wasn’t working.

Emily, Dad said, “Please, sweetheart. Don’t.” I said, “Just don’t.” They walked out destroyed. Mom’s designer heels clicked on the floor, but she wasn’t walking with her usual confidence. Dad’s shoulders were slumped. They looked defeated, broken. The door closed behind them, and suddenly I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I started shaking.

Robert came around the table and pulled me into a hug. A real hug, not the stuff my parents did. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I should have been watching. I should have known. How could they do this to me? I sobbed into his suit jacket. I don’t know, but we’ll fix what we can. He pulled back and looked at me. Emily, you need to decide.

Do you want to press charges? This is grand theft. They could go to prison. I looked at the keys in my hand. Thought about all those years of struggle, all those nights of ramen, all those tears over bills I couldn’t pay. While they lived like kings on my money. I need time to think, Grandpa. Is that okay? Of course, take all the time you need.

But Emily, they were planning something. Michelle found plane tickets to Costa Rica in their names, purchased 3 days ago. They were going to run. The betrayal hit even deeper. They came to my birthday dinner knowing they were about to flee the country with what was left of my money. I need to go home, I said. I need to think.

Michelle will drive you, Robert said. and Emily, that apartment is yours. You can move in whenever you’re ready. I got back to my apartment around midnight. Madison was waiting up for me on the couch with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Tell me everything, she said. I told her the whole story about the trust fund, the stolen money, the apartment in Pacific Heights, my parents planning to flee to Costa Rica.

She sat there with her mouth open the entire time. Holy crap, M. This is like watching one of those crime shows on TV. Your parents are actual criminals. I know. I still can’t believe it. Wait, so you have an apartment? In Pacific Heights, and they were renting it out. I held up the keys. 2 years.

They collected rent for 2 years while I was living here with the cockroaches. Those bastards. The next morning, Michelle called me. Emily, I need to walk you through what we found so far. We met at a coffee shop downtown. She had a laptop and a stack of folders. The forensic audit is revealing quite a bit, she said. Your parents were very systematic.

They started small, just 20,000 here and there. Then it escalated. She showed me spreadsheets, bank statements, transaction records. It was overwhelming. The house in Malibu was the biggest single purchase, but the daily spending was constant. Your mother spent $8,000 on a handbag last month.

Your father bought a boat 6 months ago. We’re seizing all assets purchased with trust fund money. How does that work? The court issued an emergency freeze on all their accounts yesterday. They can’t access anything right now. We’re documenting everything. Then we’ll force sales to recover what we can. Robert’s legal team worked fast. Within 3 days, the Malibu house was listed.

Their main house and Marin went up next. The cars, both Teslas, were repossessed. The boat, which I learned was actually a 40ft yacht, was seized. My phone rang constantly. Mom, Dad, numbers I didn’t recognize. Madison was my rock through all of it. You want to go see your apartment? She asked one evening. Your real apartment? We drove over to Pacific Heights in her beat up Honda.

The building was beautiful. Modern, clean, with a doorman who knew my name somehow. Mr. Thompson called. He explained, “Said you’d be coming by.” The apartment was on the third floor. Two bedrooms, hardwood floors, huge windows overlooking the bay. It was fully furnished. My parents had furnished it for the renters. I found rental agreements in a drawer.

My parents had been charging $4,500 a month, $54,000 a year, while I struggled to pay my $1,200 share of rent in our crappy place. That night, Robert called, “Emily, we’ve recovered about 2 million so far. The house is sold quickly. The rest of the assets are being liquidated. What about my parents? They had to vacate the Marin house yesterday.

I believe they’re in a motel. I felt a twinge of something. Not sympathy exactly, but something. The next week was a blur. I started moving into my apartment. Madison helped me pack. You know, she said, I’m going to miss having you as a roommate. Mads, I owe you so much. You offered to cover my rent when I had nothing. I want to help you now.

Grandpa has connections. Let me ask him to help you get a better job. M You don’t have to. Yes, I do. You’re my best friend. You were there for me when my own parents were robbing me blind. Robert was happy to help. He made some calls and within a week, Madison had three interviews at major banks.

She landed a job at Wells Fargo with a salary that was double what she’d been making. M this is crazy. I can actually afford a nice apartment now. Meanwhile, the investigation continued. More details emerged. My parents had been living entirely off my trust fund for years. Dad had actually been unemployed for 3 years, but pretended to go to work every day.

Mom’s real estate business had failed 5 years ago. They’d been broke, completely broke, until they started stealing from me. The country club friends disappeared once word got out. Turns out nobody wants to associate with thieves who steal from their own daughter. Robert set up meetings with financial adviserss from me.

You need to learn this, he said. Never be dependent on anyone else understanding your money. I learned about investments, portfolios, market trends, things my parents should have taught me but never did because they were too busy spending my inheritance. 3 weeks after the birthday dinner, I got a call from an unknown number. Emily, it’s mom. I almost hung up.

Please just listen. We’re staying in a motel in Oakland. Dad got a job at a small insurance agency. I’m working as a secretary. We have nothing left. You have exactly what you left me with, Mom. Nothing. We’re your parents. No. Parents don’t steal from their children. Parents don’t watch their kids struggle while spending their money.

Parents don’t plan to flee the country after robbing them. We’re getting help. We’re seeing a therapist about our spending. Please, Emily. I need more time. Mom, don’t call me again. If I’m ready to talk, I’ll call you. She was crying for real this time. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I hung up. That night, I sat in my beautiful apartment, my apartment, and looked out at the bay.

Madison came over with Chinese food. “You okay?” she asked. “I don’t know. They’re my parents. They’re horrible, but they’re my parents. You don’t owe them anything. M I know but grandpa had a minor heart attack last week. It made me think about family, you know, about what’s important. Your grandfather is your real family. I’m your family, too.

She was right. The people who loved me, who stood by me, who helped me, that was my real family. A year passed. I’d started my own graphic design consulting business working with startups in the city. It was small, but it was mine, and it was actually making good money. Grandpa and I had dinner every week. Now, he taught me about business, about investments, about protecting myself.

His heart attack had scared both of us, made us realize how much time we’d lost. Madison was killing it at her new job. She’d moved to a nice one-bedroom in Knob Hill, and we had brunch every Sunday. She was still my best friend, my chosen family. My parents had been going to therapy. I knew because the therapist sent confirmation to the court as part of their agreement to avoid criminal prosecution.

They were in counseling for financial dependency and compulsive spending. They’d been paying restitution, too. Small amounts, $500 a month, but they paid it. Dad was still working at the insurance agency. Mom kept her secretary job. I hadn’t spoken to them in a year. Then two years after that birthday dinner, mom showed up at my office, I had a real office now, a small space in a shared building in Soma.

I was meeting with a client when my assistant knocked. Emily, there’s a Victoria Thompson here to see you. My client left and mom walked in. She looked different, older. Her hair was gray at the roots. She couldn’t afford the salon anymore. She wore simple clothes from Target or somewhere similar. No design or anything.

What do you want, Mom? To apologize. Really? Apologize? I gestured to a chair. She sat down carefully like she was afraid I’d kick her out any second. We were wrong, she said. So wrong. The therapy has helped us understand what we did. We were We were addicted to the lifestyle, to spending to feeling rich and important. You stole from your own daughter. I know.

At first, we told ourselves we were just borrowing it just to fix the house up a bit. Then it was the car because our old one broke. Then then we couldn’t stop. It was like a drug. Every time we took money, we had to take more. You watched me struggle. I know. The therapist says we were in complete denial. We convinced ourselves you needed to struggle, that it would build character, but really, we just didn’t want to stop spending.

She pulled out an envelope and set it on my desk. What’s this? It’s not money. It’s a letter from both of us. Our therapist said we should write down everything. Take accountability. Your father and I spent weeks on it. I didn’t open it. Emily, I don’t expect you to forgive us. We don’t deserve it. But I need you to know that we understand now what we did.

We destroyed our relationship with you for money for things for a fake life that wasn’t even ours. You were going to run to Costa Rica. She nodded, tears rolling down her face. We were so deep in it. We thought if we just left, started over, we could pretend none of it happened. But your grandfather, he saved us from becoming complete criminals.

We sat in silence for a moment. “Your father’s doing better,” she said. Finally, “The regular job, the routine, it’s actually good for him. And I’m learning to live simply. We have a small apartment. We take the bus. We cook at home. It’s like learning to be human again. Are you asking me for something?” No. Just just hoping that maybe someday you might be able to have us in your life.

even a tiny bit. We’re getting help. We’re paying what we can. We’re trying to be better people. I looked at this woman who gave birth to me, who raised me, who then betrayed me completely. I’m not ready, I said. I might never be ready. I understand. But keep going to therapy. Keep paying the restitution. Keep working on yourselves.

Maybe someday. I’m not promising anything. She stood up, nodding. That’s more than we deserve. Thank you for seeing me. She left and I sat there holding the envelope. Finally, I opened it. It was 12 pages handwritten. Both their handwriting alternating, detailing everything they’d taken, everything they’d done, every lie they’d told, and apologizing over and over.

I put it in my desk drawer. Maybe someday I’d be ready to really read it. Maybe not. That night I had dinner with Grandpa and told him about mom’s visit. What do you think I should do? Two asked. That’s your decision, sweetheart. They’re paying for what they did. Whether you let them back in your life, that’s up to you.

Have you forgiven them? No. They stole from my granddaughter. They betrayed the most sacred trust. But I’m old, Emily. I’ve learned that holding on to anger is like holding on to hot coals. It only burns you. Madison was more direct when I told her they’re toxic. M. But they’re also your parents. If you want to try to have some kind of relationship with them someday, I’ll support you.

If you never want to see them again, I’ll support that, too. My business kept growing. I hired two employees, then three. We moved to a bigger office. I was actually successful on my own merits with my own work. I kept learning from grandpa. Kept building my life. The trust fund. What was recovered of it was invested properly now.

I understood every cent of it. My parents kept paying their restitution. Kept going to therapy. Dad sent a birthday card on my 29th birthday. Just sign dad with no message. I didn’t respond, but I didn’t throw it away either. Mom sent a Christmas card. A simple one, probably from the dollar store. Thinking of you, love, Mom. Baby steps. Maybe or maybe not.

I wasn’t ready to decide yet. But I was happy. I had my apartment, my business, my real family in Grandpa and Madison. I had the life I built myself with my own hands, even when the deck was stacked against me. And honestly, that felt better than any trust fund ever could because it was mine. Really mine.

And that was something my parents, for all their theft and lies, could never take away from me.