I let my brother and his girlfriend stay in my house temporarily. They slowly took over and started calling it their house, and then, with my parents’ help, they tried to transfer the house into my brother’s name.
I’m 29, male, living in Phoenix, and I worked my way up from assistant coordinator making $35,000 to senior manager pulling in about $130,000 annually. The thing is, I’m really good with money—like obsessively good.
While my co-workers were buying expensive trucks and eating out every meal, I was living in a tiny 400 sq ft apartment, driving a 2015 Honda Civic with 180,000 miles, and saving every single penny I could get my hands on.
My family background is complicated, to put it mildly.
Dad works construction. Mom’s a substitute teacher when the district needs her.
They raised four kids on maybe $55,000 combined income in a good year. Money was always tight growing up—hand-me-down clothes from Goodwill, generic-brand everything, and vacations meant camping in state parks with a tent that leaked when it rained.
I learned early that if you want something in this world, you work for it.
I started mowing lawns at 12, had a paper route at 14, worked at a grocery store throughout high school.
My brother Jake learned the completely opposite lesson: if you want something, you charm your way into getting someone else to pay for it—preferably while making them feel guilty if they hesitate.
Jake’s always been what you’d call the charming one in our family. Good-looking in that effortless way some guys have, a smooth talker who could convince a fish to buy water.
He never met a responsibility he couldn’t charm his way out of.
In high school, I was working 25 hours a week at Best Buy while maintaining a 3.8 GPA and playing tennis. Jake was supposedly too busy with football practice to get a job, though he seemed to have plenty of time to party every weekend.
I paid for my own car insurance, gas, clothes—everything.
Jake’s car?
Dad somehow scraped together money for a used Mustang.
Jake’s car insurance? Dad paid it every month without complaint.
Jake’s college tuition? My parents took out loans they’re still paying off six years later.
Jake’s degree?
He dropped out junior year to pursue music because his band was “going to make it big.” Spoiler alert: Jake’s band never made it past playing dive bars in Tempe for tip money.
Meanwhile, I graduated with a construction management degree and zero debt because I worked part-time throughout college and lived off ramen noodles for four years straight.
I got hired straight out of graduation and immediately started saving for a house. Not an apartment, not a condo, but a real house with a yard and a garage.
In 2021, after three years of saving every possible dollar and living like a monk, I finally had enough for a down payment on a three-bedroom house in Chandler.
$275,000 purchase price. $55,000 down payment that cleaned out my entire savings account.
$2,200 monthly mortgage.
I furnished it slowly over two years with stuff from Facebook Marketplace and estate sales.
Here’s where my best friend Tony comes in. Tony is a 31-year-old electrician who looks like he bench presses pickup trucks for fun, and he has absolutely zero filter when it comes to calling out nonsense.
He helped me wire the whole house during renovation, working evenings and weekends, and gradually became my unofficial life adviser and reality check.
Tony has this theory that every family has one person who carries everyone else financially, and that person always gets taken advantage of until they finally snap and fight back. He calls it the pack mule syndrome.
“Bro,” Tony told me one Saturday while we were installing ceiling fans, sweat dripping onto my old hardwood floors, “you a pack mule in your family?
Your whole family’s been riding you since you got your first paycheck at 16, and they’re going to keep riding until you either break down completely or buck them off your back.”
I laughed it off back then, making jokes about how family helps family and that’s just how things work. I should have listened to Tony more carefully.
The man’s got street smarts that could power a small city.
The house became my sanctuary in every sense of the word. I had my gaming setup in the third bedroom with a custom-built PC.
I’d saved two years to afford a home gym in the garage with equipment I’d bought piece by piece from Craigslist, and a backyard perfect for grilling with a fire pit I’d built myself using YouTube tutorials.
Wake up at 6:00 a.m.
Coffee on the back porch watching the sunrise. Work from my home office until five.
Hit the gym in my garage. Dinner while watching Netflix or gaming until midnight.
Simple, peaceful, completely mine.
I never posted about the house on social media.
Never invited family over for holidays.
My family knew I’d bought something, but they thought it was a small condo based on the deliberately vague things I’d tell them. I let them think that on purpose.
Experience had taught me that the more my family knew about my finances, the more creative they’d get about finding “emergencies” that somehow required my immediate financial assistance.
But secrets and families have a way of coming out eventually—especially when you start getting too comfortable and let your guard down.
In January 2023, Jake called with a familiar sob story. He and his girlfriend Brittany needed a place to crash because their lease ended unexpectedly and their new apartment wouldn’t be ready for a few weeks.
“Just temporary,” he promised.
Could they possibly stay at my place?
I’d never met Brittany in person, but I’d seen her Instagram through Jake’s constant stories.
Picture every basic Instagram influencer stereotype.
Blonde extensions that cost more than my monthly grocery budget. Fake nails that could double as weapons.
Constant selfies with captions like living my best life and blessed and grateful beyond measure, usually posing with Starbucks Frappuccinos or in front of luxury cars that definitely weren’t hers.
Jake had been dating her for eight months. According to him, she was different and really motivated because she was trying to start a lifestyle blog about wellness and manifestation.
According to her social media, her main motivation appeared to be getting other people to pay for her lifestyle while she figured out how to monetize her supposed spiritual journey.
But Jake’s my brother, so I said yes—with conditions.
One-bedroom.
Temporary stay.
They help with groceries and utilities.
Simple arrangement between adults who respect boundaries.
They showed up the next day with a full-size U-Haul truck. Not a small one—a massive moving truck like you’d rent for an entire apartment’s worth of furniture.
I’m watching through my window as they unload box after box. Brittany’s directing Jake like a five-star general.
“That box goes in the living room.
This one goes in our bathroom. Be careful with my mirrors. That’s my essential oils collection.”
Our bathroom.
Day one, hour one, and she’s already claiming territory.
Tony happened to be there fixing an electrical outlet and started laughing when he saw the truck size.
“Bro, you see what’s happening here?” he said.
“That’s not a temporary stay. That’s a hostile takeover. Nobody packs that much for a few weeks.”
Brittany walked into my house wearing a crop top that probably cost more than my grocery budget, fake Gucci slides, and sunglasses indoors like she was hiding from paparazzi.
First thing out of her mouth:
“Oh wow, this place is actually pretty nice.
We could definitely make this work long-term if we wanted to.”
Make what work long-term?
They were supposed to be there for three weeks maximum.
She immediately started rearranging my living room without asking. Moved my gaming chair for her massive pink velvet ottoman that looked like it belonged in a French bordello.
Took down my carefully selected movie posters and put up live-laugh canvas art and motivational quotes about manifesting abundance.
Set up an elaborate skincare routine on my bathroom counter with serums, masks, and electronic devices making weird humming noises.
“Don’t worry about the changes,” she told me with this patronizing smile. “I’m basically an interior designer.
I studied it for a semester in community college before I found my true calling.”
I didn’t ask for interior design help. I’d spent two years getting my place exactly how I wanted it.
Day three, she was ordering DoorDash twice daily and having me sign for it since she was “too busy creating content.” Day five, she’d given my address to her nail salon for mobile manicures in my living room while I was trying to work.
Day seven, she was hosting Instagram Live streams, talking to her 3,000 followers about manifesting abundance in our new space.
Our new space. Not my house.
Our.
Tony started calling her Princess Parasitic and making bets on how long it would take her to completely take over.
“Give it two months, Max,” he predicted. “She’ll have redecorated your bedroom and be charging you rent to live in your own house.”
Then Jake lost his job in February. He’d been working at a car dealership, making decent money, but apparently telling your sales manager to “chill out and stop micromanaging me” when asked to show up on time is frowned upon in professional environments.
Now they were both unemployed, living in my house, eating my food, using my utilities, showing no signs of looking for jobs or moving out.
Brittany’s response to Jake losing his job:
“This is actually perfect timing.
The universe is clearly telling us something. Now you can focus on your music while I build my brand.”
Her brand consisted of posting thirst traps on Instagram, trying to get free products by claiming she was an influencer, and making TikTok videos about morning routines involving 20 different supplements she couldn’t afford.
Three weeks turned into six. Six weeks turned into twelve.
Every time I brought up their move-out date, Brittany would get teary-eyed about how stressed she was finding the perfect place.
The rental market was so crazy.
Everything decent was so expensive.
They just needed more time.
Meanwhile, they were living like they owned the place. Brittany’s friends came over for “content creation sessions,” using my house as a backdrop.
She ordered packages to my address daily, and she painted one of my guest room walls pink without asking because it needed more feminine energy for proper manifestation.
Tony started documenting everything with photos.
“Trust me,” he said while photographing the pink wall. “You’re going to need evidence when this inevitably goes to court.
This girl’s playing the long game and you’re the target.”
I thought he was being overly dramatic.
Turns out Tony is basically a prophet when it comes to reading people.
By month eight, I was completely losing my mind. My peaceful sanctuary had become a chaos zone that smelled like essential oils and entitlement.
Brittany treated me like live-in building maintenance, constantly asking me to pick up her packages while I was working, to be quiet during her content-creation time (which conveniently overlapped with my work hours), and to keep my gaming volume down because it disturbed her meditation and chakra alignment sessions.
She’d also started making increasingly bold comments about the house itself.
“You know, Jake, this place has such good bones and potential,” she’d say. “With the right vision and strategic investment, it could be worth so much more.”
“And it’s such a shame to see a space with this much potential being underutilized by someone who doesn’t really understand interior design and feng shui.”
Underutilized.
I lived there every single day.
I worked there. I paid for every square inch of it.
The breaking point came when I got home early one Thursday and found Brittany giving a complete house tour to her friend Madison, who was filming everything with professional lighting equipment and multiple camera angles.
“And this is the kitchen, which obviously needs a complete gut renovation, but it has really good bones. The master bedroom is absolutely huge,” Brittany said, gesturing like she was selling the place.
“Jake and I are already planning how we’ll redecorate when we officially take over ownership.
We’re thinking of knocking out this wall to create a walk-in closet.”
When they officially take over ownership.
What does that even mean?
I cleared my throat loudly from the doorway. Brittany jumped three feet in the air like she’d been caught red-handed stealing something, which she basically was.
“Oh, hey,” she said. “You’re home super early.
I was just showing Madison around our place and giving her decorating ideas.”
Our place.
Not my house.
Take over ownership, I asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
She got this deer-in-headlights look, then quickly recovered with her practiced Instagram smile.
“Oh, that,” she said. “I just meant when we eventually find our own place, we want something with a similar layout, you know, for reference and inspiration.”
Complete nonsense.
But I just nodded and watched Madison pack up her professional equipment.
That night, I overheard them talking through the thin walls. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but Brittany’s voice carries when she gets excited about her schemes.
“I’m telling you, Jake, this situation is absolutely perfect for us,” she said.
“Why would we even bother getting our own place when we could just stay here permanently? He’s basically letting us live for free anyway, and he obviously doesn’t know what to do with all this space.”
“I don’t know, babe,” Jake said. “It’s his house.
He worked really hard to buy it.”
“For now, it’s his house technically,” Brittany said, like she was correcting a child, “but think about it logically. He’s single. No kids.
Works all the time. Barely uses half the space.”
“We’re the ones actually living here, making it feel like a real home. Plus, with a baby on the way—”
Wait.
Hold up.
What did she just say?
“Your parents already love me way more than they’ve ever liked him,” she continued.
“And families help families, right? Especially when there’s going to be a grandchild involved. Their first grandchild.”
She was pregnant.
Since when?
“You really think they’d actually help us get the house somehow?” Jake asked.
“Maybe,” Brittany said.
“Your brother makes serious money and spends it on nothing but video games and computer equipment.”
“Your parents have been worried about him being alone forever, probably dying single and childless. A house this big for one antisocial person? That’s selfish and wasteful, especially when their son is trying to start a family and provide them with grandchildren.”
I recorded the entire conversation on my phone, hands shaking with anger.
Tony was absolutely right about needing evidence.
The next morning, Brittany announced the pregnancy with all the subtlety of a freight train.
She “accidentally” left a positive pregnancy test on the kitchen counter where I’d definitely see it.
Then she acted all surprised when I noticed it.
“Oh my gosh,” she said. “You weren’t supposed to see that yet. We wanted to tell the whole family together.”
Jake was grinning like he’d just won the lottery instead of getting trapped by a professional manipulator.
“Surprise, bro,” he said.
“You’re going to be an uncle. Isn’t this amazing?”
I faked enthusiasm while internally screaming and planning my escape route.
That weekend, they invited my parents over for dinner at my house using groceries I paid for—without asking me.
I came home to find my parents at my kitchen table while Brittany played perfect hostess.
She was in full performance mode, wearing a flowy maternity dress that emphasized her barely-there bump, talking about how blessed they were to be starting their family in such a loving, stable home environment.
My mom was eating every word like gospel truth.
“Oh, Brittany, you’re just glowing,” Mom said. “And this house is just absolutely perfect for raising children.”
“I know, right?” Brittany said.
“Jake and I were just saying how this feels like our forever home. We could really see ourselves building a whole life here. Raising our kids in this neighborhood.”
Building a life in my house.
Raising kids in my house.
Kids plural.
Dad started talking about how expensive it is to raise kids these days, how hard it is for young couples to get started.
Brittany nodded along sympathetically, occasionally placing her hand on her stomach, looking overwhelmed.
“It’s just so stressful,” she said with practiced vulnerability.
“Houses like this are completely out of our budget range. Everything we can afford is just not suitable for raising a baby safely.”
She was laying the groundwork perfectly.
I could see the manipulation happening in real time, and my parents were falling for every single word.
After dinner, Mom pulled me aside.
“That girl is absolutely perfect for Jake,” she said. “She’s going to make such a wonderful mother.
You’re so lucky to have them here.”
“This house was honestly way too big for just you.”
I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood and just nodded along.
Tony stopped by later after my parents left, and I filled him in on everything. He wasn’t even surprised anymore.
“Called it months ago,” he said. “Princess Parasitic found her mark, analyzed the family dynamics, identified all the weak points, and now she’s moving in for the kill.
Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said, “but I’m definitely starting to get some very specific ideas.”
The baby shower happened on a Saturday in April. Originally, it was supposed to be at my parents’ house, but Brittany somehow convinced them that my place would be so much more spacious and perfect for photos and would really show how much family means to all of us.
Of course, she didn’t ask me directly. She had Jake approach me with the request, framing it like they were doing me a massive favor by letting me host this wonderful family celebration.
“Brittany thought it would be really special to have the shower at your place since you’ve been so generous letting us stay here,” Jake said.
“Plus, she’s been working so hard to make the house look amazing for the professional photos she’s having taken.”
Make the house look amazing.
It was my house.
It already looked exactly how I wanted it to look.
But somehow I ended up agreeing to host a baby shower for 30 people while being treated like hired help instead of the actual homeowner.
Brittany went into full event-planner mode the entire week before, ordering me around like I was her personal assistant.
“Can you move your car to the street so there’s more parking?”
“Can you put all your gaming stuff away so it doesn’t ruin the aesthetic?”
“Can you make sure to stay out of the main areas during gift opening so you don’t accidentally photobomb the professional photos?”
Stay out of the main areas of my own house during a party I was hosting and essentially paying for.
Tony showed up early Saturday morning to help set up, but really to watch the chaos unfold and document everything.
He brought his girlfriend, Lisa, who took one look at Brittany directing traffic in a $200 maternity dress and immediately understood the assignment.
“Oh, heck no,” Lisa whispered to me. “That girl is absolutely insane. She’s acting like she owns this place, and you’re just some servant.”
The party started at 2 p.m.
with pink and gold decorations covering every surface. A three-tier cake that probably cost more than my monthly food budget.
Elaborate games involving guessing baby food flavors and measuring Brittany’s belly with ribbon.
Brittany played the perfect pregnant princess, graciously accepting gifts like actual royalty. Every other sentence was about how blessed and grateful she was and how amazing it is to have such a wonderful stable home to raise the baby in.
My mom ate every single word, talking about how excited she is to finally have a grandchild and how wonderful it is that they have such a stable, loving environment.
Stable environment—in my house—that they didn’t contribute a penny toward.
Then came the moment I’ll never forget.
My mom stood up and tapped her water glass.
“I have a very special announcement to make.”
She pulled out this fancy wooden box with an elaborate ribbon.
“Jake and Brittany, this is from all of us in the family.
A gift to help you start your family with complete security and stability.”
Inside the box was a house deed.
My house deed—except Jake’s name was printed on it instead of mine.
The entire room erupted in applause.
Brittany started crying happy tears. Jake looked genuinely shocked, but pleased.
My mom was beaming like she’d just solved world hunger.
“We wanted to make absolutely sure you have security and stability for the baby,” Mom announced. “The house is yours now, completely paid off.
Consider it an early inheritance and our investment in the future of this family.”
I examined the deed more closely.
It had Jake’s name where mine should be, but when I looked at the signature line, something was definitely off.
I’d seen my signature on legal documents hundreds of times.
This wasn’t it.
My dad leaned over quietly.
“Don’t make a scene in front of everyone,” he whispered. “We’ll talk about this later in private. You’ll be fairly compensated for your sacrifice.”
That’s when it hit me like a freight train.
They forged this deed.
They actually committed identity theft and fraud, forged my signature, and transferred ownership of my house to Jake without my knowledge or consent.
I didn’t make a scene.
I just excused myself politely, went to my bedroom, and started making very important phone calls.
First call: my lawyer.
Second call: a locksmith.
Third call: a moving company.
Fourth call: Tony.
It was time for Operation Pack Mule Liberation.
Game on.
Monday morning, 6:00 a.m.
sharp, the locksmith arrived exactly on schedule.
By 6:30, every single lock in the house had been changed.
By 7:00 a.m., Tony was there with his work truck and three of his biggest electrician buddies, all eager to help with what Tony was calling Operation Pack Mule Liberation.
Jake and Brittany were still fast asleep when the professional moving crew showed up at 8:00 a.m. with a full-size truck and enough boxes to pack up a small apartment.
I banged loudly on their bedroom door.
“Rise and shine,” I said. “It’s moving day.”
Jake opened the door looking completely confused and half asleep.
“What?
Moving day? What are you talking about, bro?”
“You’ve got exactly two hours to pack up all your belongings and get out of my house,” I said. “Anything left behind after 10:00 a.m.
becomes my property.”
Brittany appeared behind him wearing a silk robe that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
“Excuse me,” she snapped. “This is our house now. You literally cannot just kick us out.”
I held up my phone, showing the crystal-clear recording of their conversation from months ago where she explicitly laid out her entire plan to take over the house.
“First of all, that deed you got yesterday is completely fraudulent.
My signature was forged, which makes it a Class 4 felony in Arizona.”
“Second, you’ve been trespassing in my house for over a year without paying rent.”
“Third, I have recordings of you planning to steal my property. You have exactly two hours.”
Jake tried to process this while simultaneously trying to wake up.
“But… but the deed. Mom said it was all legal.
Is it fake?”
“I already called my lawyer and filed a police report,” I said. “Show me a single mortgage payment, insurance payment, or utility bill with your name on it.”
Brittany’s face turned increasingly red.
“You can’t do this to us,” she screamed. “I’m pregnant.
You’re literally going to throw a pregnant woman out on the street!”
“I’m evicting a squatter and a wannabe identity thief who happens to be pregnant,” I said. “The pregnancy isn’t my problem or responsibility.”
Tony and his crew started bringing in moving boxes like it was a choreographed performance.
“We’re here to help you pack efficiently and safely, ma’am,” Tony said, far too politely. “Purely for your convenience and to avoid any property damage.”
The next two hours were absolute chaos.
Brittany screamed about how this was illegal, how she was calling the police, how her father was a lawyer who was going to sue everyone involved.
Her father was not actually a lawyer.
He sells insurance and drives a 2018 Camry.
But she was clearly panicking.
Jake ran around frantically trying to pack their massive amount of stuff while also trying to calm Brittany down and figure out what just happened to their perfect plan.
My mom showed up around 9:30 a.m., absolutely furious.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“That’s their house now. We gave it to them.”
I calmly showed her the police report I’d filed for identity theft and fraud.
“Mom,” I said, “they forged my signature on legal documents. This is a serious felony.
Do you want to be considered an accessory to fraud?”
Her face went completely white when she realized they’d actually committed a crime.
Meanwhile, Brittany had a complete emotional meltdown, crying and screaming about the unfairness of it all.
At one point, she dramatically threw herself onto my couch and wailed:
“This is so unfair! We were building a life here!”
Tony couldn’t contain himself anymore.
“Lady,” he said, “you were building a life with someone else’s money in someone else’s house while contributing absolutely nothing except drama and entitlement. That’s not building a life.
That’s being a parasite.”
By 10:00 a.m. exactly, they were gone.
Brittany was still screaming threats from the driveway while Jake loaded the last of their stuff into the moving truck.
She was already posting Instagram stories about being illegally evicted by toxic family members and asking for donations.
I watched them drive away from my front window.
Tony handed me a cold soda and grinned.
“Phase one complete,” he said. “What’s phase two?”
Phase two was where things got really interesting.
That evening, I sat down with my laptop and spreadsheet software to compile every single financial account, subscription, and automatic payment I’d been covering for my family members over the years.
The list ended up being significantly longer than I expected.
Over the past several years, I’d gradually become the unofficial family bank without really noticing how extensive and expensive it had become.
It started small and seemingly reasonable—covering Dad’s truck payment when he was injured, then Mom’s credit card payment when she overspent on Christmas presents, then my sister’s car insurance because she was between jobs.
Before I knew it, I was paying Dad’s truck payment every month at $415.
Mom’s car insurance at $175 monthly.
My sister’s phone plan at $82 per month.
My parents’ streaming services, which combined cost $64 monthly for Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime.
Uncle Rick’s storage unit at $125 monthly.
The family phone plan upgrade, which cost an additional $42 monthly for unlimited data.
And various family emergencies that averaged about $280 monthly, including car repairs, medical bills, and utility payments.
My total monthly family subsidy was about $1,183.
Over the past three years, that added up to $42,588 in regular monthly payments.
That wasn’t counting the one-time emergency payments, like the house down-payment help I gave my parents totaling $14,000.
Or the emergency car repair fund for my sister when her transmission died, totaling $7,800.
Or the countless smaller loans that were never paid back.
My total family financial bailout since I started making decent money was $64,388.
Tony’s jaw literally dropped as I showed him the numbers.
“Bro, what the heck?” he said.
“You could have bought a luxury sports car with that money, or taken a vacation to Europe every single year for the past five years, or literally anything else besides supporting a bunch of fully grown adults who should be supporting themselves.”
He was absolutely right.
But I was raised with the belief that family helps family, that you take care of your own people, and that success means lifting others up with you.
I thought I was being a good son and brother.
Now I realized I was just being a very well-compensated ATM machine.
Time to permanently close the bank.
I spent the next hour methodically canceling every single thing.
Dad’s truck payment got discontinued immediately.
Mom’s car insurance policy got canceled.
My sister’s phone plan got disconnected.
My parents’ streaming services all got terminated.
Uncle Rick’s storage unit payment got stopped.
The family phone plan got downgraded to basic service.
Every single automatic payment to any family member got discontinued permanently.
Then I drafted a group email to send first thing Tuesday morning.
I wanted them to discover the full scope of what they were losing all at once for maximum impact.
But first, I made some strategic phone calls to limit their damage-control options.
I called Dad’s boss at the construction company.
“Hey,” I said, “this is awkward, but I thought you should know someone might be calling claiming to be my father, asking about emergency loan assistance or advanced pay. My family’s been having some serious financial issues. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
I had the same conversation with Mom’s principal at the elementary school where she substitutes, and with my sister’s current boyfriend’s parents.
Tony was absolutely dying laughing.
“You’re scorching the earth behind you,” he said.
“I love it.”
Tuesday morning, I sent the group email with all the family members copied.
The subject line read:
“Financial Independence Day.”
And the body explained that after this weekend’s events, I’d decided it was time for everyone to achieve true financial independence effective immediately.
All automatic payments from my accounts to theirs had been permanently canceled.
All shared services had been discontinued.
All emergency financial assistance had ended permanently.
And all outstanding loans were now due in full with accumulated interest.
I attached helpful financial planning resources, including personal budgeting worksheets, local job search websites, and information about government assistance programs they may qualify for.
My phone started ringing within 15 minutes of me sending that email.
I didn’t answer a single call.
Week two, the real consequences hit.
Dad’s truck got repossessed from the construction site, embarrassing him professionally.
Mom’s car insurance lapsed and she got pulled over, resulting in a ticket and a court date.
My sister’s phone got shut off mid Instagram story, which she considered a personal tragedy.
I knew all this because my cousin Amy kept sending updates.
Amy’s the family gossip coordinator, but she’s smart. She never asked me for money and she thought what they did was unforgivable.
“Your mom had to take a part-time job at Walmart,” Amy texted, with a secretly taken photo. She was working self-checkout, looking absolutely miserable.
My mom—who used to brag about her successful son—was now scanning barcodes for $12 an hour.
“Your dad’s riding the city bus to work now,” Amy wrote.
“Saw him at the stop looking completely defeated.”
“Jake and Brittany are living in her parents’ basement paying rent. Brittany’s crying on Instagram and started a GoFundMe for apartment deposits.”
The GoFundMe raised exactly $47 after two weeks.
Hilarious.
Week three brought waves of desperate calls.
My sister called from work since her phone was shut off.
“I think there’s been a huge misunderstanding.”
Mom left a voicemail about discussing this like reasonable adults.
Dad tried:
“Your mother’s crying herself to sleep every night.”
I didn’t call anyone back.
I was done being their emergency contact for self-created problems.
Week four, they showed up for a full family intervention.
I was expecting this, so I’d installed a Ring doorbell and security cameras.
Tony was over for UFC fight night, grinning like a maniac while recording everything.
The whole family assembled on my porch like they were here for a funeral.
Brittany wore an oversized sweater to emphasize her pregnancy bump, practicing her most pathetic expression.
“What do you want?” I asked through the intercom without opening the door.
“We want to talk as a family,” Mom said.
The same family that committed identity theft against me.
Jake spoke up after Brittany elbowed him.
“Bro, we’re literally living in Brittany’s parents’ basement, paying $800 rent plus utilities. We can’t afford it long-term.”
“Here’s how we work this out,” I said.
“First: Jake and Brittany publicly apologize on social media for attempting to steal my house and admit they forged my signature.”
“Second: get actual jobs and pay your own bills like functioning adults.”
“Third: pay me back every penny I’ve loaned or gifted. $64,388 plus interest.”
“That’s completely ridiculous!” Brittany shouted.
“We don’t have that kind of money.”
“Then I guess you better start earning it,” I said.
They stood there ten more minutes with Brittany getting increasingly dramatic.
She actually sat on my porch steps crying about how stress is dangerous for the baby and how I’d be responsible if something bad happens.
I didn’t acknowledge the manipulation attempt.
Week six brought the real begging campaign.
Brittany texted from her mom’s phone with a hospital bed photo.
“I had to go to the emergency room because of severe stress.”
I screenshot it and sent it to Tony.
Level 10 manipulation attempt in progress.
He responded:
“Don’t fall for it. Princess Parasitic is pulling out all the stops.”
She tried again.
“Don’t you care about your own niece or nephew?
What kind of uncle abandons family?”
Then she got truly desperate.
“I’ll leave Jake completely. I’ll disappear forever. Just please help him get back on his feet financially.”
Now she was throwing Jake under the bus to save herself.
Week eight.
Jake showed up alone, looking absolutely terrible.
Lost 20 pounds, unshaven, wearing clothes that needed washing.
“Can I please come in just to talk for five minutes?”
I let him in, recording everything for legal protection.
Jake sat on my couch staring at his hands for a full minute.
“She left me,” he said finally.
“What?”
“Brittany left me last week,” he said. “Moved back in with her ex-boyfriend from college. Says the baby probably isn’t mine anyway.”
Plot twist I genuinely wasn’t expecting.
She was cheating the whole time.
Getting money from him, from me, probably from other guys too.
Jake was just the one stupid enough to try getting her an entire house.
He looked up with tears in his eyes.
“You were completely right about her from the beginning,” he said. “She was using me, using all of us. The second things got difficult, she just disappeared.”
He was actually crying now.
“I’m really sorry, man,” Jake said.
“I genuinely messed up. I know I took advantage of your generosity and let her manipulate me into doing something terrible to you.”
And that’s when I realized I completely won.
Not just the house situation—everything.
I sat down across from him.
“Jake,” I said, “you want to earn back even a tiny bit of my respect? Get any job.
Work six months straight without asking anyone for financial help. Prove you can actually take care of yourself.”
“Then maybe we can talk about slowly rebuilding some kind of relationship.”
He nodded eagerly.
“Yes. Absolutely.
I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“And if I ever see or hear from Brittany again, we’re done forever.”
“Understood,” he said. “Completely understood.”
I slipped him a $20.
“Get some food. Get a shower at the gym.
Start job hunting tomorrow morning.”
As he was leaving, he turned back.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “this house looks really good. Better than when we were here messing it up.”
After he left, I sat in my quiet, peaceful, completely mine house and smiled.
Tony texted later:
“How’d the broken brother visit go?”
I texted back:
“I won. Told you, bro.”
