She raised me alone, working two jobs and making sure I never felt the absence of my father. She always said, “Family comes first.” I believed her. So when she called one night, sobbing that her house was about to be foreclosed unless she paid $20,000, I didn’t hesitate. I took out a personal loan and wired her the money.

But when I visited days later, something felt off.

Her home wasn’t in crisis—it was remodeled. New furniture, flat-screen TV, marble counters. She looked radiant, not stressed. I asked about the foreclosure. She admitted she exaggerated the urgency to get the money, saying, “Would you have sent it if I told you the truth?”

I was stunned. Heartbroken.

Months passed. She never mentioned the loan again—not to repay it, not to apologize. I messaged her once, asking for help covering payments. She replied, “Maybe next year.”

Every month I pay $417.86 for that lie. The silence between us is louder than any argument. And the person I once saw as my hero? Now, I barely recognize her.