Pretending to Be Rich: My Niece’s Secret and Our Family’s Struggle
“Emily, why did you tell your classmates that your dad owns a Tesla dealership?” My voice bounced off the kitchen walls, sharper than I’d intended. The fluorescent light flickered above us—one of those little things you keep meaning to fix but never do, like old wounds you pretend don’t bleed.
She stared at the tile, picking at a chipped piece with her thumbnail. “I didn’t say that,” she mumbled. “Not exactly.”
I sighed, fighting the urge to lecture her. After 28 years as a high school teacher in Denver, I’ve learned that you can’t help someone by shaming them. But Emily—my own goddaughter—was a puzzle I couldn’t solve. I’d watched her parents, Mark and Linda, break their backs just to keep the house. Mark worked double shifts driving for DoorDash and fixing HVAC units on weekends. Linda cleaned offices after her day job at the hospital. Yet, Emily strutted around school in fake designer jackets, her Instagram full of Starbucks cups and boutique shopping bags, like some influencer’s sidekick.
“Emily, your mom called me last night. She said you asked her for $200 for a class trip. You know they can barely cover rent this month. What’s going on?”
Her eyes flashed. “They don’t get it! Everyone at school has stuff. Brianna got a car for her birthday. Tyler’s family just went to Cancun. People look at me like I’m a loser.”
I pulled out a chair and sat across from her. The kitchen felt too small for this conversation. “You know, when I was your age, I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs. I hated it. But lying about who you are… that’s not going to help.”
She crossed her arms, her jaw set. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to walk into that school every day and pretend you don’t care what people think.”
Her words stung. Of course I cared. I’d spent my own childhood ducking the landlord, listening to my parents fight about bills, praying no one would notice my patched jeans. But I’d hoped things would be different for her.
That night, I called Linda to check in. She sounded exhausted, her voice thin and watery. “I don’t know what to do with her,” she whispered. “She keeps asking for things we can’t buy. Last week she begged me for a new phone because hers is ‘too embarrassing.’ Mark and I… we just want her to be happy. But I’m so tired.”
I wanted to help, but what could I do? I wasn’t her father. I wasn’t even her teacher. I was just Uncle Dave, the guy who showed up with birthday cards and stories about his high school basketball team.
The next morning, I watched Emily leave for school. She waited until she was a block away and slipped on a fake Gucci hoodie she’d hidden in her backpack. I watched her from the window, my heart sinking.
That Saturday, I asked her to help me sort books in my classroom. She grumbled but came along. As we shelved paperbacks, I tried a different approach.
“You know, Em, you’re not the only one who feels out of place. I see it every day with my students.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Like anyone cares about a teacher’s opinion.”
I laughed. “Maybe not. But I do know what it’s like to want to fit in. I also know what it costs to keep up a lie.”
She hesitated, then blurted, “Everyone at school thinks I’m rich. I started with a stupid joke. Now it’s too late. If they find out, they’ll think I’m pathetic.”
I set a stack of books down. “Did you ever think maybe someone else is pretending too? Maybe everyone’s just trying to look like they have it together.”
She was quiet for a long time. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“You start by telling the truth—to yourself, and maybe to one other person.”
Later that week, things came to a head. Someone posted a photo online of Emily in her old hoodie, tagging it with #fakelife. She came home in tears, slamming her bedroom door so hard the picture frames rattled.
Linda called me, her voice trembling. “She won’t talk to us. She says she hates this family. Mark’s furious. He wants to take away her phone, but I’m scared she’ll just shut us out more.”
I drove over that night, sitting in my car for a minute before going in. I remembered my own parents yelling, the shame that clung to every argument about money. I knocked on Emily’s door. “Can I come in?”
No answer. I sat outside anyway, talking through the wood.
“Emily, I know it hurts. But pretending doesn’t make it easier. It just makes you lonely. Your parents love you. I love you. We’re not perfect, but we’re here. You don’t have to do this alone.”
After a while, the door opened. Her face was blotchy, eyes red. “I just wanted people to like me.”
I hugged her, wishing I could magic away her pain. “You’re worth liking, Em. Not because of what you have, but because of who you are.”
It wasn’t a happy ending. There were more tears, more fights, and slow, stumbling steps toward honesty. Emily started seeing the school counselor. Mark picked up an extra shift to help with the trip, but Emily volunteered to do odd jobs to cover some of the costs.
Sometimes, I still catch her scrolling through Instagram, envy flickering in her eyes. But she’s learning. We all are.
Now, I wonder: How many kids are out there pretending, hiding behind filtered photos and borrowed clothes? How many families are breaking under the weight of appearances? And what would happen if we all dropped the act, just for a moment, and told the truth?