My Scam Victim/Survivor Story #65

Romance Scam

Survivor’s Country: USA

This is the original victim’s story, enhanced by the SCARS Institute Editorial Team to improve comprehension, readability, and continuity. The names were changed to protect the survivor’s identity.

WARNING: THIS SCAM VICTIM/SURVIVOR’S STORY MAY BE TRIGGERING TO SOME PEOPLE. DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

ADVERTENCIA: LA HISTORIA DE ESTA VÍCTIMA/SOBREVIVIENTE DE ESTAFA PUEDE SER INSENSIBLE PARA ALGUNAS PERSONAS. SE RECOMIENDA DISCRECIÓN.

If you need help, join our free SCARS Institute Support and Recovery Program at support.AgainstScams.org

Si necesita ayuda, únase a nuestro Programa gratuito de Apoyo y Recuperación del Instituto SCARS en support.AgainstScams.org

My Scam Victim Story

I’m a 62-year-old retired nurse living in Westchester County, New York, and I never imagined I’d lose $1,000,000 to a scam that started with a swipe on a dating app. I’ve always been cautious, raising two kids alone and managing my finances with care, saving diligently for retirement. But in 2022, I fell for a romance scam that drained my life savings and left me questioning my trust in others and myself. The scammer was a master of disguise, posing as a charming partner who seemed perfect, only to betray me when I was deepest in. Writing this feels like baring a raw wound, but I’m sharing my story to warn others across the U.S., hoping you can avoid the devastation I faced. The loss has upended my life, but by understanding how I was deceived, I’m slowly piecing myself back together, determined to help others stay safe.

It began during a quiet evening in lockdown, when I downloaded a dating app to ease the loneliness in my Westchester home. I’d been single for years, focusing on my nursing career and my grown children, but I craved connection. A profile caught my eye: David Carter, a 60-year-old engineer working on an oil platform off the Gulf Coast. His photo showed a handsome man with kind eyes, and his bio mentioned a love for jazz and travel. I swiped right, and soon he messaged me. Your smile lights up your profile, I’d love to chat, he wrote, his words warm and thoughtful. I felt a flutter, a spark I hadn’t known in ages.

We moved to WhatsApp for easier chats, and David was attentive, asking about my life in Westchester, my garden, and my volunteer work at the local hospital. He shared stories of his own—how he’d lost his wife years ago, was raising a daughter, and worked long stints on the rig. You’re so compassionate, it reminds me of home, he said, and I blushed, feeling seen. He sent photos: him in a hardhat on the platform, at a beach with his “daughter,” even a selfie with a sunset behind him. Our talks grew intimate, and within weeks, I was falling for him, dreaming of meeting when his contract ended.

About a month in, David’s messages took a subtle turn. He mentioned a delay in his pay due to a rig malfunction. It’s just a hiccup, I’ll sort it out, he said, shrugging it off. I offered support, not suspecting a ploy. Then, one night, he called, his voice strained. He said a critical machine had broken, and he needed $5,000 to cover repairs or risk losing his job. I hate asking, but you’re my rock, he pleaded. My heart ached for him, and though my gut whispered caution, I sent the money via a wire transfer, believing I was helping someone I loved. He thanked me, promising to repay me soon.

That opened a floodgate I didn’t see coming. Over the next year, David’s “crises” multiplied. He needed $10,000 for a legal fee to secure a contract, then $20,000 for equipment stuck in customs. Each request came with documents—contracts, invoices, even a photo of a shipment—that looked real. This will get me back on track, and I’ll pay you back with interest, he assured me. I dipped into my savings, then my retirement account, convinced I was investing in our future. He spoke of visiting Westchester, meeting my kids, maybe buying a home together. I clung to that vision, ignoring the growing dent in my finances.

The amounts escalated. He claimed a tax dispute required $50,000 to resolve, then $30,000 for a medical bill after a “work injury.” He sent a photo of himself in a hospital bed, bandaged, which tore at my heart. I’ll be okay, but I need you now, he wrote. I sold stocks, took out a loan, and even cashed out part of my pension, telling myself it was temporary. By late 2023, I’d sent nearly $800,000, scraping together every asset I had. Each payment felt like a lifeline to keep David safe, to keep “us” alive.

Doubts surfaced, but David was skilled at quelling them. When I asked why repayments were delayed, he’d call, his voice soft and earnest. You’re my everything, I’ll make this right, he’d say, spinning tales of a big payout from his contract. He sent a document showing a $2 million deal, promising it would cover everything. But the money never came. Instead, he asked for another $200,000 to “finalize” a deal, claiming it was the last step. Exhausted and nearly broke, I pushed back, asking for proof he was real. His reply was cold: Good luck finding me. Then, nothing. His WhatsApp went silent, his dating profile vanished, and my calls went unanswered.

I sat in my Westchester living room, staring at my depleted bank account, my chest tight with disbelief. I’d sent $1,000,000 over 18 months, money meant for my retirement, my grandkids’ college funds, my security. The truth hit hard: David wasn’t an engineer in the Gulf. He was likely a scammer, possibly overseas, who’d preyed on my longing for love. I later found the hospital photo was fake, his image stolen from a random social media account. The documents, the stories, the affection—all fabricated. I felt like I’d been living a lie, waking up to a gut-wrenching reality.

The shame was overwhelming. I couldn’t face telling my kids, who’d always relied on my strength. I’d missed red flags—the urgent requests, the secrecy, the too-perfect persona—because I wanted to believe in him. I kept it hidden for weeks, replaying every message, wondering how I’d been so blind. The betrayal wasn’t just financial; it was deeply personal, like losing a partner who never existed. I grew wary of every email, phone call, even friendly faces, fearing another deception. My confidence shattered, and I doubted my ability to judge anyone, haunted by my own naivety.

Eventually, I confided in my daughter, who hugged me and urged me to forgive myself. I joined an online support group, reading stories from others across the U.S. who’d been duped by romance scams. I thought I was alone, but I wasn’t, I realized, finding solace in shared pain. The scammer’s tactics—love-bombing, fake crises, forged documents—were calculated, designed to exploit trust. Knowing this eased my self-blame, though the financial loss still stings. I’m rebuilding, living frugally on my pension, and relying on my kids more than I’d hoped.

Sharing this is painful, like admitting a failure, but it’s worth it if it saves you. In 2023, Americans lost over $1.1 billion to romance scams, and I was one of thousands who fell prey. These scammers blend in, crafting personas that feel real, like imposters wearing a trusted mask. If someone online moves too fast, asks for money, or pushes secrecy, step back. Verify their story, talk to loved ones, and never send funds to someone you haven’t met in person. I learned these lessons too late, but by sharing my story, I hope you can stay vigilant and protect your heart and savings from those who hide behind a facade.

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