Two weeks after mom died in 2013, I got an angry phone call from dad. He was going through a box of her old paperwork and found a credit card statement in my name that was run over its limit.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he screamed.
Since the mid-'90s, my family had been plagued by an incessant identity thief who stole our mail and opened credit cards in our names, sending us into a whirlpool of inescapable debt. "That must be one of the credit cards taken out by the thief," I reasoned. "But what was mom doing with that?"
"I don't know," he said, "but it's here in this file folder, along with your birth certificate."
My heart sank. After decades spent battling bad credit scores, I realized we finally found the perpetrator who'd nearly destroyed our lives. I was hit with a wave of relief—
finally! we were free!—followed by a deep, burning anger. The person who haunted us so relentlessly, and for so many years, was my own mom.
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