That’s Not Very Godly of You
My parents both lost their lives in a hit and run car accident when I was 10. My dad was only 39 and my mom 35, and neither of them had relatives who could take me in. We lived in a really small, church-going town where everyone knew one another.
My dad had been the heir to a small fortune and so didn’t really have to work. He didn’t like the big city, so him and my mom decided to move to a small town where he could have an antique store. My mom was into collecting antiques.
I would have had to go the orphanage route when they passed, but this couple from the church, who I will call Mr. and Mrs. Banks, made this big to-do in church about how “a little girl needs a loving home, and God has given us this joyous task of bringing her up in our home and hearts.”
It’s been a long time and I don’t remember if those were Mrs. Banks’ exact words, but they were something cringe-worthy like that. The Banks had their own daughter “Kitty” who was a year older than me.
That should have meant we would be super good friends, but Kitty had her own thing going and practically ignored me. She was a holier than thou type.
The Banks received a stipend from the state to take care of me, but they also received checks every month from my dad’s estate, which was supposed to take care of me until I was 18.
When I did turn 18, I would receive full control of my inheritance. The Banks weren’t exactly cruel to me, but in private it was clear they were just using me to build up their reputation in town. In front of other people, they’d fawn over me in a sick, cotton candy fashion that made me uncomfortable.
They’d also make Kitty be nice to me in public, which she resented. The Banks would also put on a big show whenever social workers came to check up on me. They’d coach me before the lady would come, and tell me to praise how godly and wonderful they were.
After the social worker left, they’d go right back to ignoring me and spending my dad’s money on the Internet or on trips. It was clear to me even as a tween and teen that the Banks were only using some of my endowment, both from the state and from my trust, to take care of me.
The rest they spent on themselves. As I grew older, I could see that my foster parents would pretend as though they had great business acumen and that’s why they had more money and could buy a new Volvo (where I’m from, a new Volvo is an event) and take a trip to New York and buy fancy clothes for Kitty.
When I was 17, I noticed that my foster parents were stockpiling away my trust fund money to pay for Kitty’s tuition to college.
Throughout this time, the Banks would never outright say so, but would heavily imply that I “owed them” and that once I got control of my inheritance, that I should be Godly and generous and give them some material compensation for “all the work” they did to raise me.
I think they already got lots of material, especially since Mrs. Banks practically took all of my mom’s antiques from her store and kept them for herself, gave them to Kitty, or to her other relatives.
One thing my mom never kept at her store, however, was an extremely expensive, Baroque-era fine china set, absolutely complete and worth tens of thousands of dollars. Not a replica, but the real deal. So real, Napoleon Bonaparte himself might well have eaten a steak off those plates.
Probably not, but you get the point. It was my china set of course, but Mrs. Banks thought I was an idiot and didn’t know that. She would always talk about how “this china set will go to Kitty on her wedding day.”
Mrs. Banks assumed that since I always dressed like a tomboy and didn’t care about all my mom’s antiques that Mrs. Banks gave away, that I just didn’t care about the china set. When I was a kid, my mom told me that things were things, and not to obsess over them.
So, having the frou-frou china set for myself wasn’t an issue. What WAS an issue was Mrs. Banks acting like it was hers to give away. Wrong, lady. So, once Kitty went off to college thanks to MY biological mom and dad’s money, I had to make my own plans.
I had always done well in school and had actually gotten a partial scholarship to attend school out of state. The rest I could easily pay for with my inheritance, which I would very soon have control of.
Per usual, Mr. and Mrs. Banks were haranguing me about how I owed them compensation and since I was going to be rich soon, I ought to share the wealth.
I figured that over the past seven years they probably misappropriated more than two hundred thousand dollars of my parents’ money, to say nothing of the state money they misused.
I think they more than shared the wealth. I never promised anything, I just smiled and kept a tally of every single bank statement (I got them quarterly) that my trust issued over the years.
The Banks family never shared them with me, of course, but when I asked the actual bank for a rundown, they were more than happy to oblige.
I also wrote down every single major purchase my foster parents clearly made over the past seven years with money that was clearly beyond their means as a housewife and an insurance salesman.
Things such as a $40,000 car for cash, a used $20,000 car for cash that they gave to Kitty, trips to Hawaii, New York, cash gifts to the church that made them look super generous at my deceased parents’ expense. I kept it all in a nice, three-ring binder. I already arranged my travel to my new campus.
I didn’t have much stuff at the Banks’ house anyway, and had zero intention of coming back, at least to their home. The Banks knew I was leaving but didn’t bother seeing me off, because they assumed I’d come back to “give them their due.”
I waited for our church’s yearly antique sale extravaganza, set to begin in three days. Per usual, the Banks donated all sorts of random stuff, many of it knick knacks that used to belong to my mom and technically belonged to me.
They weren’t shy about giving away my stuff and taking credit for it. While Mr. and Mrs. Banks were on one of their shopping sprees with my parents’ money and away from their house, I boxed up the china set and brought it to church.
I told the rummage sale committee that Mrs. Banks wanted to donate the priceless antiques for sale, all benefits to go to the church. “This donation is made in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Banks.”
I was being fair. If Mrs. Banks was really so godly, she would be delighted that such a wonderful donation be made in her name.
Sadly, I knew she’d go the other way. The ladies were flabbergasted, especially when I told them the appraisal of the set’s value. I also told them that if they needed proof of ownership and right to sell, to contact the number of a certain attorney in New York.
They thanked me profusely and praised the Lord Jesus for Mrs. Banks’ generosity. This would be the most expensive item in their sale’s history. Everyone knew no one could afford to buy the set outright, but everyone would love to buy the pieces piecemeal.
Like, “I got a cup and saucer,” or “I got one of the chargers,” “I got an egg cup…” The Banks were supposed to work the sale the second day and I wasn’t there.
What I did hear was that my foster mom went ballistic when she saw “her” china set for sale, and that it was a huge hit, and ladies from all over the county had bought pieces of it, and it raised SO much money for the church! My foster mom threw a tantrum, and said that I had taken the set from her house.
The ladies at the church explained that I had made the donation in HER name, and she was getting credit for the donation to the church. My foster mom was practically yanking her hair out, according to what I heard later. She was trying to track down who had bought pieces, and trying to get them back.
Of course, she was unsuccessful. What she WAS successful in was looking like a Grade-A douchebag. The entire church thought she was selfish and materialistic and acting very ungodly, especially the way she cursed her foster daughter.
A week later, my foster parents received a package by registered mail from me and my attorney. It contained my binder where I showed my bank statements and also a list of all their spending extravagances.
It also contained a warning from my attorney that should they ever try to contact me again for money, that they will receive a BILL and a court date. That was that. 10 years later, I work as a third-grade teacher. I’m married to an accountant, and we have a three-year-old son and one-year-old daughter.
Kitty ended up working through college, and as we’ve gotten older, we’ve reconnected. She apologized for the way she acted when we were kids. We’re friends now, and see each other multiple times a year, often just for lunch. She’s an elementary school teacher, too, and married to an engineer.
She has a four-year-old daughter. Both of our older kids play together when our families meet. We both have our OWN wedding china. She has gone to a lot of therapy due to her toxic parents, she tells me. As for her parents? They still live in their small town because they’re too broke to move.
Their reputation is of being “that couple who drove both their children away and took money from that poor little girl.” I sure hope that your brand-new Volvo was worth it, you jerks.